


Asunder

by kendrawriter32



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ghosts, Horror, POV Abbie, POV Ichabod Crane, Romance, Smut, Supernatural Elements, Witchcraft, ichabbie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 85,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kendrawriter32/pseuds/kendrawriter32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fates of Lieutenant Abigail Mills and Captain Ichabod Crane are entwined. As Witnesses, they share a bond like no other. But only now has their bond finally been set free to grow even stronger. So strong that Ichabod finds himself drowning in desire for the young Lieutenant. So strong that every time they give in to their growing feelings for one another, they draw the ire of a restless spirit. Trapped between realms. Hellbent on tormenting Ichabod...and murdering Abbie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. be my desire

**Author's Note:**

> If I do my job right, this will be equally as creepy and terrifying as it is a heart-wrenching ode to IchAbbie.

 

 

> _be my desire_
> 
> _i'm a frustrated man_

-My Desire, Interpol

 

 

(Ichabod.)

 

For nearing six months, Ichabod Crane had done his best to memorize every expression on Lieutenant Abigail Mills' face.

If he were honest with himself, he would acknowledge that he'd been doing this for far longer than that. Perhaps at first, he simply hadn't been aware of it. But now...yes, he was becoming deeply, troublingly aware. _He knew her face._ Knew it well.

During the daylight hours when they worked together he would feel guilty and knavish for surreptitiously cataloging her every reaction. But at night, as he lay contemplating them alone in the dark...he simply didn't care. When he first met her, he found her expressions were rarely what he expected. Now that he'd spent nearly two years as her partner and friend, he knew that they were actually always utterly perfect.

Take this evening, for instance. In just the span of an hour, she'd already produced a dizzying array of intriguing facial expressions, including some of his favorites. Presently, she was watching him do his utmost to hold his own as he sang a particularly rowdy song with Frank Irving.

The former captain, the Lieutenant, Miss Jenny, and Ichabod were taking their leisure on karaoke night at their regular pub, Mabel's Tavern. It was Ichabod's favorite part of ending a particularly toilsome case, when he was afforded the opportunity to drink beer, rest his mind, learn to sing twenty-first century songs, and simply share in mirth with the Lieutenant. They had caught wind of, and thankfully thwarted, a plot to kidnap and sacrifice the mayor's daughter by a few tenacious servants of Henry's who believed they could raise Moloch again with such a gift.

In the six months since Katrina and Henry's deaths, the four of them had worked tirelessly to dismantle Henry's network of allies and servants. All of them, Ichabod most of all, devoted themselves to seeing it done. In the beginning weeks after the traumatic event, he succumbed to an uncharacteristically deep depression, and it was all poor Abbie could do to pull him out of it. It had been her idea, in a desperate attempt to reach him, to hunt down Henry's network and leave behind no trace of the evil he had conjured.

They had finally defeated the last of the allies' forces that they knew of, and the relief was palpable.

The song Irving had chosen for them was called "Prove It All Night" and it was performed by a man he referred to as The Boss. The former captain had explained his unbridled enthusiasm for this Bossman and his music during a stakeout for the case they had just closed. Irving knew an endless assortment of details of the man's life, virtually all of the songs in his collection, and had apparently gone to see him perform in concert a total of twenty times. Ichabod had graciously agreed to sing a duet in celebration of their success.

So, he and Irving swayed to the music and brandished their fists at the rafters, belting their lungs out. Buffoons, the pair of them.

 

> " _Baby, tie your hair back in a long white bow,_
> 
> _Meet me in the fields out behind the Dynamo!_
> 
> _You hear their voices telling you not to go,_
> 
> _They made their choices and they'll never know!_
> 
> _What it means to steal, to cheat, to lie!_
> 
> _What it's like to live and die!"_

And the Lieutenant's current expressions...Ichabod could not help his eyes from drifting towards her face every few moments or so. He could not think of what he expected to see, but what he found in those eyes and on her glowing, heart-shaped face fascinated him enough to distract him from paying attention to the lyrics on the screen. And, even though he could not turn away from the scrolling lyrics too often, every time he looked at her (which was every chance he received) he found himself elated that she was still watching him.

Her head was tilted, her wavy dark tresses hanging loosely over her shoulder. Her large round eyes were vibrant...her curvaceous bottom lip was trapped between her teeth. She looked as if she was torn between being amused and being confounded. There was tenderness...and wonder...and a touch of light-hearted pity...under the dim pub lights, myriad reflections flickered at him from her sparkling eyes. He could not help grinning foolishly at her, and she smiled back, releasing her lip from her teeth as the smile crept to its completion. _God's wounds_... _she is such a beauty._

He forced himself to focus on the song, singing with gusto to mask his mawkish behavior.

 

> " _Prove it all night! Prove it all night!_
> 
> _Girl there's nothing else that we can do!_
> 
> _So I'll prove it all night, prove it all night,_
> 
> _Girl I'll prove it all night for you!"_

Irving hooked Ichabod by the neck with one muscular arm, shaking him good-naturedly as the song came to a dramatic crescendo, and the noise, mercifully, faded away. Ichabod could not help wiggling his index fingers inside each of his ears, attempting to rid them of the infernal ringing that always persisted when he was exposed to the glaring avalanche of sound twenty-first century folk called "rock music".

He remembered the heady days that preceded the war. How he _loved_ the noise of a chamber full of some of the sharpest minds and greatest contributors to the birth of democracy; the forging of an independent nation. Scholars, politicians, and generals. Converted aristocrats and blowhard scientists...and, he would later learn...secret soldiers in the hidden war against the apocalypse. All those voices, boisterous and arrogant and passionate and full of hope for the future of what they would build...he drank it in, remembering every detail, from the pipe smoke to the heat of the oil lamps. He had, at the time, absolutely _lived_ for it.

 _This_ noise however, bordered on torture. Despite the efforts of Irving and even the Lieutenant, Ichabod was very slowly, somewhat petulantly picking his way through modern rock music. He had some favorites, of course...he enjoyed The Beatles, and The Jackson Five was a winsome bunch. But this Bossman was rather intense.

Applause rang out from the pub at large as they finished.

Irving laughed and clapped Ichabod about the shoulders as he followed the taller man back to the booth. Miss Jenny stood up and clapped still more as they approached. "Bravo, boys..." she said with a crooked grin.

Ichabod gave a gracious bow before eagerly resuming his place at the Lieutenant's side.

Abbie leaned back and blinked at him appraisingly, giving Ichabod a slow clap. "Wow, Crane, that was…a hot mess."

It seemed amusement had won out as that same playful smile crept again across her lips. He looked down at her without turning his head, feigning aloofness as he took a hearty swig of his beer. Her scrutinizing expression broke and she chuckled, shaking her head at him as his swig grew double long. He held up a finger as he finished it off, and Abbie's laughter soared to a merry guffaw that sent a thrill through him. It gave him a feeling of immense pleasure to be the cause of such a carefree reaction in her, even at his expense, and especially after all that had transpired.

Ichabod gulped down the last of his beer, belched, and apologized hastily under his breath, licking the foam from the bristle on his chin.

"Someone's thirsty…" Jenny observed, raising her eyebrows.

"Let the man drink. We worked up a sweat out there." Irving replied, taking a sip of his own gin and tonic. "Besides, Abbie, before you start making fun of us, take a look at that… _that_ is just sad." He gestured beyond their booth, where an unfortunate young woman was now mewling her way through a Madonna song.

'Like A Prayer', Ichabod recalled...it was a favorite of the Lieutenant's. She had told him while they listened to it in her 'SUV' less than a fortnight ago that it reminded her of the two of them, and their work as Witnesses. He had YouTubed it later that evening, watching the video more than a few times, examining the lyrics and committing them to memory. Contemplating it as he did most of the secrets she confessed to him. They didn't come often, so he didn't take them for granted.

"We were the best act all night." Irving continued. "We _killed_ it, right Crane?"

Ichabod tapped his empty glass on the table surface, nodding in agreement.

"Here, here, Captain. We did indeed 'kill it'." He raised a slender finger. " _And_ , if I might add, I believe we've proven ourselves to be in _ample_ possession of 'swagger'."

All three of them launched into laughter, and Ichabod frowned at them before rolling his eyes. The days of impressing his friends with his steadily expanding twenty-first century vocabulary had long since digressed to unabashed amusement at his expense whenever he repeated one of those ridiculous utterances (he couldn't bear to call them words). But he was determined now more than ever to become much less of an odd thumb in Sleepy Hollow. He hoped to one day see much more of this modern world, beyond the boundaries of their small town (or more apt for the Witnesses: apocalyptic battleground).

So he pressed on. And they made sport of him every step of the way.

"Did you prove it all night, Crane?" Abbie spoke up, her cool voice drawing his attention to her again.

Irving and Jenny were practically undone with laughter, but Ichabod only found a beguiling twinkle in Abbie's eyes. Ah, but she loved to disguise her jests as serious asides. Something they had in common and constantly tried to catch each other off guard with.

"Mock if you will, Leftenant, but I stand by my performance, thank you." Ichabod raised an indignant eyebrow at her and she chuckled still more, her hair falling into her eyes.

"Okay, fair enough. I got the next round, Boss." Ichabod stood immediately when she indicated that she was leaving the booth to approach the bar. She gave him a wink as she passed, and he obliged her with a warm smile.

He couldn't help watching her retreating form, suddenly struck still by an acute feeling of…something he couldn't peg, admittedly. Curiosity? Fascination. Admiration? Tenderness. Or all.

"Yo, Crane." Jenny announced, clearing her throat loudly. "Incoming."

He was forced from his thoughts in time to see what Jenny was warning him about. Two women, both flushed with drink (and lots of it, telling by their awkward gait), were making their way toward him. They had rather determined looks on their faces. Before he could think of an excuse to escape, they were upon him, one actually touching his hair and stepping up to him boldly, her bosoms thrust upward towards his line of vision.

"Hey there, handsome," she purred, causing him to flush and avert his eyes from her bust. He focused on her face, masking his own with polite detachment. Her smooth, pale skin was adorned with entirely too much makeup, but there was a graceful shape to her face, enhanced by glittering blue eyes and shoulder-length, curly red hair. _Red hair_...he thought, pushing away a fleeting, sorrowful memory of Katrina.

"Good evening, miss. How may I be of-of service?" Ichabod stumbled, doing is best to ignore her gross breach of his personal space.

" _Oh my god_ , that accent!" She giggled and turned to gush at her much taller, blonde friend. "I told you he was British!"

"That's hot." The blonde bit her lip, eyeing the length of his body and lingering in a particular place below his pelvis.

Ichabod took the opportunity to roll his eyes to the ceiling. He was standing right there. They may have been on the grog, but surely they were aware that he could see them fawning?

He turned to signal for help from Irving and Jenny, but they looked as if they had no intention of saving him. Oh, there would be hell to pay.

"We just _had_ to come over here and tell you—you have an _amazing_ voice. Are you a singer for real?"

Ichabod was torn between darting baleful looks at his two supposed friends and raising his eyebrows in befuddlement at the buxom woman oozing compliments at him. "I…well, I am not _trained_ , per se..."

"You are just sooo cute!" The redhead purred, pushing herself even further into his space. He caught the somewhat overwhelming scent of her perfume. It was entirely too saccharine (and there was entirely too much of it) to be compelling.

"I am most flattered..."

"Some friends told us about you, we were hoping we'd catch you one of these nights!" The blonde piped up.

"You knew I would be here?" He was stunned.

They both trilled with laughter. "A hot, mysterious guy like you? Word gets around, honey!"

"You're practically a rock star in this place. All the girls have been talking about you."

"Have they indeed?" He couldn't help a bemused smirk.

"And you're much cuter in person, isn't he, Amy?"

Amy, the blonde, stepped up to him and offered her hand. "I'm Amy, this is Star."

"Ichabod Crane, at your service. As I said, I am most flattered by your compliments." Ichabod offered graciously. "Amy, Star," he couldn't help frowning slightly at such a name, "these are my friends, Frank Irving and Miss Jennifer Mills."

The blonde squinted at Irving with dim recognition. "Hey, you used to be a cop, right? Didn't you like...kill some people or escape from a mental institution or something?"

"Yikes…" Jenny coughed into her drink, her eyes glittering impishly.

Star interrupted before Irving could formulate any kind of answer however, as she was determined to continue flirting with Ichabod. "Nice to meet you. So, are you single, Handsome?"

Ichabod hesitated at Star's extremely forward manner. She had somehow closed the space between them _even further_ during his introductions, and it seemed as if he had no escape from her breasts. She was determined to wield them at him like some sort of weapon.

Jenny snorted. "Do tell, Crane. Don't leave poor Star hanging." She eyed Ichabod expectantly. He would have words with her later, he determined to himself.

"Ah...Miss Star...I-I'm afraid…"

"Sorry to interrupt."

Blessedly, the Lieutenant had finally returned with their drinks. But her demeanor had changed from her relaxed posture of a few moments ago. She stood behind the two women, arms laden with drinks and held close to her chest, her expression now unreadable. She was wearing her mask of professionalism, the one she used as an officer of the law. Her guard was up. He found himself simultaneously glad for her interruption and wishing he'd been able to avoid this awkward exchange as he offered to help unburden her of some of her load. She held out his beer.

"Crane. Gonna introduce me to your new friends?"

"Yes, right. Miss Amy and Miss Star were just complimenting Captain Irving and myself on our karaoke skills." Ichabod gratefully stepped aside to let Abbie back into the booth. "Thank you very much, ladies. I shall not forget your kindness. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

The two of them stood there dumbfounded for a moment as Abbie passed out drinks and reclaimed her seat. When it was clear that Ichabod had ended the exchange, Star gave Abbie a once over and seemed to make up her mind about something. "Yeah, anytime. See you around, Handsome…" she muttered, smoothing her dress and flipping her curly hair as she retreated with her very intoxicated friend.

Abbie raised her beer to them and her eyes flickered in Ichabod's direction. He was feeling flushed, and avoided her gaze for a moment as he took a large swallow of his beer. They all stared at him, and finally he put his glass down.

"Go on...out with it."

They all laughed, yet again, at his expense.

"Wow, Crane, I thought eighteenth century dudes had a lot more game than that!" Irving shook his head. "Remind me never to ask you to be my wingman."

"That was kind of a train wreck, man." Jenny added.

"I could be an excellent 'wingman'!" Ichabod protested, even though he wasn't quite sure what that meant. "I may not be a _total_ gal-sneaker, but I'll have you know that I am endowed with plenty of so-called 'game'. I was simply taken aback by-"

"Star's ample bosom?" Abbie offered coolly, taking a swig of beer.

"It was almost disturbing." Ichabod muttered, and this time they all chortled at poor Star's expense.

"Wait a minute, wasn't cleavage a thing back in the day?" Jenny asked, having some of the drink her sister had brought back to the table for her.

"Oh, well if you're referring to _my_ day, Miss Jenny, then I'm sorry to disappoint, but it wasn't a 'thing'. Certainly not as big a thing as that." He gestured to Star and Amy, who'd both moved on to flirting with a rather enormous pair of chaps at the bar. "Perhaps women of ill repute flaunted their wares a bit, true. However, most women covered themselves a great deal more, and better, than you'll find in any 'reality TV' program or action picture in this age."

"I don't buy it." Jenny shook her head, refusing to give him the final word on the matter. "I saw that corset Katrina strutted around in. Maybe chicks in your time didn't have implants, but there was definitely cleavage going on."

Ichabod recalled when he had first laid eyes on Katrina Van Tassel. She had been, at the time, the most beautiful and fiery thing he'd ever seen. But now there was something to compare that memory to. Something perhaps to rival it...a young Lieutenant's deep, expressive eyes peering at him in wonder through steel bars.

"Hey." He came out of his thoughts at the sound of Abbie's voice. "You okay?"

This expression he was quite familiar with. She'd worn it many times over the last few months. Her eyes probed his. Her worry for his emotional wellbeing emanated from those commanding orbs of hers like a fierce caress. Even though he'd recovered from the dark business of mourning and had been in better spirits of late, she still took the time every now and then to make absolutely certain. It warmed his heart to know she cared for him so much. She wasn't _just_ making sure he was feeling alright, or that memories of his late wife and son weren't too much for him, or watching for signs that he might retreat to that dark place again.

Where she had provided him food, clothing, and shelter before all of this, in the last six months she'd spent practically every waking hour outside of her duties as an officer providing him with her attention, her friendship, her energy...with caring and thoughtfulness that he didn't deserve.

He did everything he could to repay her, but those things weren't nearly enough, and she usually resisted his efforts unless he wore her down whilst she was too tired to refuse. Or he simply did things for her without her immediate knowledge.

She would come to him saying he needn't have gone to the trouble of mending the holes where her thumbs poked through her favorite shirt. She would come telling him to stop waiting up to run her a hot bath if she was sleeping at the cabin after she'd been on duty all night. She would chuckle to herself when he would never fail to save the raspberry-filled doughnut holes she liked because she was the only one who preferred them. She would complain vaguely and attempt to refuse his offers to massage her feet for her after a particularly grueling day. Well, she was usually much more amenable to this gesture than all the others. He knew she enjoyed it, perhaps even looked forward to it, and truthfully it was one of his favorite things to do for her. Mostly because he enjoyed the peaceful time to watch her as he pleased (even though he was supposed to be paying attention to the Netflix) and feel her warm, bare skin beneath his fingers, and listen to the sounds she made when something he did caused her even the slightest pleasure.

Small gestures. But gestures reserved only for Ichabod and Abbie, made special by their bond as friends and Witnesses. These were what filled their days, in the spaces left over from their mission; their tireless work. He cherished them.

He looked into her eyes now and nodded appreciatively. "Quite well, thank you, Leftenant."

"Sorry, Crane…" Jenny spoke up with chagrin. "Didn't mean to bring up a touchy subject."

"Everyone, please." Ichabod raised his hands to settle their minds. "There's no need to avoid mentioning Katrina in my presence. No matter how she met her end, she was still my wife...and once a brave, lovely, caring woman that I adored. I choose to remember her that way."

He wasn't being completely truthful, but then sometimes mourning was about setting everyone else's mind at ease, not your own. He did choose to remember Katrina in better days, but he would never forget how grief and darkness turned her against him and their cause. The cause she had sacrificed for. She had risked her soul (and his) and paid a dear price. He would always regret not being able to be the husband she needed him to be...not being able to somehow change her fate for the better.

But he would also never forget the hatred in her eyes when she was trying to murder Abbie. Nor the overwhelming panic and despair that rose up in him at that moment. The thought of losing Abbie was more than he could bear; it was more painful to think about than giving Katrina's tortured soul some peace. It was a tragic, terrible accident. But it was also a choice.

A choice he would make again if he had to.

"Good." Abbie gave his hand a squeeze. Then she gave him a playful punch on the arm. "Plus, Jenny's right."

Ichabod did a double take, scandalized.

Abbie laughed. "Hey, you should've seen the look on your face. You looked like a cat someone tossed in a tub of water."

"I most certainly did _not_ -!"

"So your game's a bit rusty, man. Two hundred years'll do that to you." Irving shrugged. "But you don't want to waste it on girls from the strip club anyway. I'm with you. Brave and lovely is always the better way to go." The former captain's lingering glance at Jenny was not lost on Ichabod.

Ichabod politely overlooked the glance and nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Captain." Then he frowned. "The strip club?"

Jenny smirked. "Oh, those were totally strippers."

"If the implants didn't give it away, the fake tan should have." Irving added. "This is Sleepy Hollow, not Miami."

" _Fake_ tan? Implants…?"

Abbie, mercifully, addressed Ichabod's confusion. "Ah, yeah. So fake tan is basically artificial sun exposure that darkens the skin. You lay in a box and they shine these UV lights on you, kinda like the ones we used to trap Headless …" She chuckled at his wide-eyed, horrified expression. "Eh, anyway those ladies of ill repute you mentioned before? Well...strippers are...sort of like a step up from that." She lay her head from side to side, blinking rapidly, attempting to find the right words to explain this to him. "What I mean is, they don't trade sex for money, but they do sell you a sex-themed show. They take off their clothes for tips."

"Ahhh. You mean burlesque!" He exclaimed with a flourish of his fingers, finally cottoning on.

"Sure…?"

"Well, that isn't so shocking. Burlesque was quite an artform in my day. Obviously you wouldn't court a wife among the women who practiced this art, but I'm hardly offended by such a...talent." He downed more of his beer. A hearty buzz was traveling through his body, making him feel languid and jaunty. "And these implants you spoke of, Miss Jenny?"

"Um...that's a little harder to explain." Jenny muttered, frowning.

They did explain it. Then they laughed at his horrified expression. He could not help stealing awestruck glances at Star, who was oblivious to his horror and ironically straightened her back to proffer her implants at him every time she caught his gaze. He just couldn't fathom: how could one _live_ with their bust filled with...congealed salt water? And what's more... _why_ would anyone want to? Because those of the modern ilk valued their physical appearance above their physical health, apparently.

 _Well, if our dearly departed Washington could abide a gob full of lead_... _what's a bosom full of useless jelly_ , he mused as he turned his attention back to his friends.

"The mindless narcissism of your generation is quite terrifying, Leftenant." He shook his head to rid it of the unpleasant image of what was lurking inside Star the burlesque dancer's bosoms and drank more beer.

"Here, here!" Irving mimicked Crane, tapping his glass on the table.

As they fell into lighthearted conversation, Ichabod could not help himself from comparing Abbie's figure to Star's. As if there were a comparison at all. He much preferred her petite shape that was enhanced by smooth curves.

She wore her clothing quite fitted, but there was a strength and a consistency to the way she dressed that impressed, and truth be told, appealed to him. He had lain thinking about it many nights, and he knew why she dressed the way she did. She was an officer and a woman who needed control to survive. She kept her wardrobe simple and functional because it was part of her work to be able to command authority in any situation she walked into. She moved inside them so well, as if they were a second skin.

Fitted jeans and boots, a cotton V-necked bodice, her weapon and badge secured to her hip. Her breasts were so perfectly shaped: full, round and pert, usually peaking at him from the shelter of a jacket (talk of cleavage, indeed). And her posterior was...quite impressive. He could only marvel at how she, being so petite, carried it around with such grace.

Ichabod's fingers curled and unfurled slowly in his lap, thinking about how fitted her trousers were, and how they enhanced the very round, firm shape of her rear. He had long since admitted to himself that he wanted to touch her there...test out the feel of that part of her in his grip. Ever since the evening he'd been forced (more like volunteered) to press his face against the side of it as an awkward result of hoisting her up. If even his face could appreciate the muscularity, shape, and sheer _weight_ of it, he could just imagine what it would feel like in his hands. He'd been unable to keep his eyes from wandering down there for the next two days, to watch it move… _stop it, you louse._

At any rate, her manner of dress made her light on her feet; her movements lithe and blessed with a feline grace that caught his notice more and more of late. He had been noticing it for nearly two years, of course. But he'd also been preoccupied with becoming acclimatized to his strange surroundings, grappling with Katrina's secrets, unraveling their perilous mission as Witnesses, and setting to the daunting task of catching up to two hundred and fifty years of history.

But since that black day that he lost his family irrevocably, and now that they were both far more settled into their roles as Witnesses, Ichabod found himself taking more liberty to notice these things about Grace Abigail Mills.

In fact, while he paid half a mind to their present conversation, the other half of his attention was focused on studying Abbie with her guard down finally after three weeks straight of being 'on the case', as she called it. Her smile appeared more easily, her posture was relaxed and open. His heart quickened when she leaned her head against him and laughed, or swatted at his arm for his teasing her. His name "Crane" fell from her lips softly and slowly, her speech unhurried as a result of the three ales (and counting) she'd had.

He watched her and her sister indulge in 'inside jokes' and embrace each other affectionately. He watched her play with her hair whilst he and Irving regaled them with the tale of how they 'tag-teamed' to take down three of Henry's followers the night they thwarted the kidnapping.

"What is this, the A-Team?" Jenny quipped, and Ichabod mentally added it along with 'wingman' to his running list of things to Internet later.

"We kinda _are_ the A-Team, " Abbie mused.

"A for apocalypse?" Ichabod queried, raising a curious eyebrow and his beer to his lips simultaneously.

Abbie raised her beer too and they clinked. "Damn straight." He drank more. She laughed. He felt sure that he would never tire of hearing her do it, just that way.

For the first time in such a long time, Ichabod felt at peace. Settled. As settled as he could ever hope to be given the circumstances. But he was grateful for what he had. It was due in no small part to Abbie's unflinching friendship, and the support of their little 'A-Team'.

And certainly his 'beer buzz' helped matters. But mostly...it was being granted the pleasure of watching her this way, unbeknownst to her. When she didn't think he was looking, he caught such perfect expressions on her face. He catalogued each and every one of them. It had become something of a secret pastime for him. And while he usually tried not to stare for too long lest he skirt impropriety, he couldn't help indulging himself tonight.

In fact, earlier in the evening he had indulged himself quite a bit as he watched the Lieutenant join her angelic voice with her sister's to sing an entrancing (if also a hodgepodge of innuendo-laden gibberish) tune called 'What A Man', by a group called 'Salt N' Peppa'. He was engrossed, and though he tried to make light banter with Irving, he could not help his eyes from becoming glued to the small stage area at the front of the tavern where she stood with Jenny. He would trail off or stutter to watch Abbie's face as she closed her eyes and released such beautiful sounds. She was a siren, and when she 'broke it down' with her sister, moving her body to the steady bass rhythm, her voice soaring and her expression unguarded, he was struck with a thought: _I would march through Hell and back to hear that voice moan my name._ He took a shallow breath. _Feel that body against my own…_

He had felt a heated flash of intense longing that made him blink rapidly, but caught himself before such a thought could carry him into a fantasy that exposed his preoccupied state. Now, he forced himself to pay attention to the conversation. He could examine his memories again later; he knew he would in fact. Because he knew he could slip freely into fantasy then, alone in the dark.

"Well, you _are_ pretty cute, Crane." Jenny observed. They'd somehow returned to the subject of 'game'. "You'll always have women falling all over you and you know it. ' _Ooh, that accent!'_ " She mimicked Star's high-pitched trill and whistled low. He got the distinct impression she was mocking him.

 _Well there's quite enough of that,_ he thought, egged on by another swig of beer.

"Cute! Heh!" Ichabod scoffed loudly, putting his mug down. "Miss Jenny, in my era, men were not considered ' _cute'_." He scowled at such an ignominious word.

"Oh, come on, Crane." Abbie teased. "You're _such_ a gentleman. _The_ gentleman. Too polite to let me walk into a room without standing ramrod straight. Too polite to even let me hold my own damn umbrella. You're chivalrous, proper, kinda clueless, and _yes,_ _very_ _cute_ when you get caught off guard by these thirsty chicks around here."

"Well however 'thirsty' some 'chicks' may be, I take offense to that description of my character. ' _Cute'_ is a word reserved for _boys_ , Leftenant. Infants. A litter of puppies, perhaps. Not grown men."

"The man has a point." Irving added. "You women decided that was a compliment, not us."

"Okay...I'll bite. So if cute isn't a compliment for a guy like you, then what is?" Abbie challenged, crossing her arms.

He regarded her seriously for a moment. And he was inexplicably overtaken with the urge to tell her the truth. Well, he also knew it was because he was sloshed, but in this very moment he didn't care.

"For all this talk of game, it utterly fails to capture what a 'guy like me' truly desires…"

"And what's that, Crane?" Abbie squirmed a bit under his gaze, her playful demeanor faltering. But her eyes grew large and expectant.

Ichabod found himself leaning a bit closer. The increasing proximity made him forget that Jenny and Irving were there. He found himself...thrilled...afraid...like the anxiety of leaning too close to a flame but being drawn to it nonetheless. Whenever she allowed him this near to her, he could feel the heat of her small frame pulling at him, coaxing him. It made him find any excuse to touch her. The small of her back. Her shoulder. Her fingertips as he handed her a coffee or showed her something in one of the ancient tomes they studied in the archives. Her bare feet. He held his hands behind his back or at his sides these days less out of personal habit and more out of the need to check himself before he touched her too freely.

In the moment, he kept himself from touching her but he couldn't stop a bit of the truth from betraying him.

"To give you pleasure, of course."

Her lips parted and her eyebrows rose. She was speechless, and he was pleased to find that he had her full attention. She seemed to be searching his eyes to figure out if he was being serious.

He lowered his tone so that she had to lean closer to hear him over the din.

"Men of _my_ ilk, Leftenant, took our _time_ courting women. We learnt to have patience. Self-control is _key_. Courting a woman should be...like unraveling a mystery. Something precious. We worked at it day-by-day, glance-by-glance, touch-by-touch. We studied how you moved, how you spoke, your every expression. We learnt what makes you laugh, what displeases you, what inspires you...and yes, what fills you with desire...before there could even be so much as a chaste kiss. All in a tireless effort to win your affections and eventually...be free to _show you_ the depth of our devotion. Not to the game, but to you."

He found his fantasies of her suddenly dancing around in his mind's eye. The ones he hadn't dared allowed himself to think about in his waking hours. The ones of her naked, slick with arousal, soft and molten to the touch, writhing beneath him. He tried to keep the strain of such thoughts out of his voice as he continued.

"I can assure you, there is nothing 'cute' about it. Men are not bunnies to be cooed at."

Ichabod took yet another swig of beer, his heart pounding. _Such brazen words, old boy! What would your father say?_ 'Bram would chortle at his friend's expense with a waggish twinkle in his eyes.

All Abbie did was push out a weak scoff and avoid Ichabod's gaze to take a drink from her own glass.

He could tell that he had shocked her. As he looked at her, he felt it prodding at him again. The thing he'd been feeling whenever he thought of Abigail Mills over the last six months. Desire. Pure and plain and heavy in his gut.

Perhaps it had always been there. For a long time he had ignored it, rationalized it, forced himself never to let it surface. He was separated from his beloved and their missions were perilous enough without such an impossible distraction. But it was free now, set loose from his iron grip somehow, and it was unruly. It blazed a trail from his gut to his groin and up again into his chest.

He paused, thinking that he should leave it at that. But the look in her eyes did something to him, emboldened him. He had to make sure she could at least understand where he was coming from, even if now was hardly the time or place to reveal much more than that.

"Let's just say, I take the game quite seriously. And any woman I played the game with would never once doubt my intentions. I may be a gentleman, but I am not cute. I'm a flesh-and-blood man."

He let his meaning hang in the air, and they stared into each other's eyes in silence. Jenny and Irving exchanged looks, no doubt wondering where this all came from. They'd never heard him speak so openly about such things. But Ichabod paid no notice or care. Abbie utterly captivated him. He found his gaze flickering from her full, pink lips to her immersive eyes and back again. She looked poised for flight but she was held fast by his body blocking her exit from the booth.

"Besides which…" he said softly, unable to help himself in his intoxicated state, his lips developing a lazy smirk. "You're one to talk, Leftenant."

She balked, blinking rapidly at him. "What the hell are you talkin' about, Crane?"

He watched her laugh uncomfortably, adjusting herself in her seat again. Ichabod adjusted himself as well, now looking down at her sideways, appraising her. He had been studying her for quite a long time now, and he had an inkling of some of the triggers that put her guard up. Men, and talk of romance, were two of them.

The drink spurred him on, he told himself. Suddenly he had an enormous bee in his bonnet, and he needed answers.

"You once told me that matters of the heart were of low priority to you. 'Since always', you put it." He paused, now turning his full gaze on her. "Is that still true?"

Abbie licked her bottom lip slowly, a sign that she wasn't comfortable with the subject in the least. _My, how the tables have turned._

"Yeah. So."

" _So_...how is it that you can mock me for my alleged lack of game, when you yourself thumb your nose at it?"

"Here we go." Irving muttered.

"He does have a point, Abbie…" Abbie's gaze wheeled around to her sister.

If her eyes were daggers, poor Miss Jenny would be mortally wounded.

Jenny raised her hands with feigned innocence. "What? When's the last time you picked a guy up?"

"I _don't_ pick guys up." Abbie gritted through clenched teeth.

"Ok, fine, but since Luke, you've-"

"I _became a Witness_ since Luke, Jenny, and excuse me if I take my work as a soldier in the _war against the apocalypse_ kinda seriously." Abbie took a rather aggressive drink from her beer, rolling her eyes.

"Look, all I'm saying is that you're always wound up so tight, so serious, all-business. If you keep going without some...I don't know, stupid hot, nasty, fun piece of ass to distract you, you'll implode. Trust me, I've been there."

Abbie made a disgusted face. "Ohhh yeaaah, great. Hot, nasty fun with some jackass, that's just what I need. Good lookin' out, sis."

Jenny looked to Irving for help. He shook his head. "My name is Bennett, and I'm not in it...you're on your own with this one, Mills. I don't poke a sleeping bear when I've been drinking."

Abby nodded and tipped her beer to him. "Somebody listen to the man." She spotted Ichabod still smirking and glared at him. "Something to add, Professor?"

He ignored the slight and shrugged, as he'd seen her do many times. "Well…I believe..." he paused.

"Ok, sure I'll bite. What exactly do you _believe,_ Crane? I'm all ears." She sat back, sighing hard with forced patience. It was a challenge. To speak his mind, or no? Piss it. He'd already been more forward than he ever felt like he could be tonight, he may as well pull at another thread.

He decided to tell the truth, but only part of it. The din of inebriated karaoke singers filled the cool, dark room, and he had to raise his voice a bit to be heard. He leaned close to Abbie. Jennie leaned forward, too, blatantly eavesdropping while Irving was playing it cool, pretending not to be straining to hear every word.

"I believe that being a soldier comes naturally to you, but you balk at matters of the heart. Fighting in this war feels right; safe, even. You wear your role as a Witness almost as armor. It fits. But love? Courtship? Intimacy? You'd rather embrace the danger we face every moment of this war than open yourself-or your heart-to another."

Her eyes cut across to him as though he had threatened her bodily harm. He frowned at her reaction, leaning still more forward to reassure her with his body language that he meant no malice by his words.

They stared at each other once again. Jenny and Irving and the pub at large were mere echoes in the ether. He was right. He _knew_ he was right. And for just a moment, he could see more deeply into Abigail Mills' soul than he ever expected to. He knew it was the slick hold of intoxication that exposed her to him thusly, however, and what he wouldn't give for this to be a more private moment. No. He needed to reign himself in, but he spent such a majority of his time holding himself in check around her...now he was finding it hard to put proper distance between himself and the woman he secretly desired. Adored. _Would kill and die for._

There was a startling crash that woke him from his fixation on Abbie's face. They all turned to see that Star had fallen, sending several glasses of drink crashing to the floor from the bar. She lay sprawled on her bottom, laughing hysterically whilst Amy and the gentleman on whose lap she'd been attempting to perch tried to help her to her feet.

Ichabod felt a pang of chivalrous embarrassment for her, and was glad the chap at the bar was behaving like more of a gentleman than he looked.

"Well guys, I'm gonna take that as my cue."

Ichabod turned to find Abbie pushing her glass away, looking as though she tasted something unpleasant. She was also avoiding meeting is eye with hers. His heart gave a panicked thump in his chest. He'd been too forthright. He hadn't intended to make her so uncomfortable that she would flee. This was the problem with being such an enthusiastic drinker. As a man who prided himself on thinking before he spoke, drinking tended to unravel that stalwart code of conduct a bit.

_You creten, you've pushed her back into her shell..._

"Aw, _come on_ , Abbie, don't get mad. We're just talking." Jenny protested. "It's not even ten o'clock!"

Abbie shook her head quickly. "I'm not mad." She said, and none of them believed her. "But I actually do have to report tomorrow, so I gotta cut the party short." She was standing, indicating to him that she wished to move out of the booth. Still not looking at him.

Ichabod stood and stepped aside for her, struggling to find a way to take back what he said. And not wanting to. He was at a loss for words or action for a moment as she shrugged herself into her jacket, her back to hm.

Jenny gave him a meaningful look, her eyes practically bulging as they darted from him to her sister. At last, he found his voice.

"Perhaps Miss Jenny could stay here with Captain Irving and I could...?" He ventured, but she was still ignoring him.

"I'll make sure Jenny gets home safe. You guys go get some sleep." Irving piped up, to Jenny's surprise.

He adjusted himself in his seat, very nonchalantly slouching closer to the younger Mills sister. Her expression relaxed into sly awareness. "Yeah, sure why not? A few more drinks won't kill us civilians. It's been a long, crazy ass month."

"Indeed it has." Ichabod was only half-listening. He was watching Abbie with her back to him. She was making deliberate and unnecessary adjustments to her jacket before pulling her hair out over the collar. "Leftenant, please, allow me to escort you-"

"I'll be fine, Crane. Stay here, have fun. Practice your game." She still would not look at him.

"Abbie…" He had recklessly offended her. Damn it.

"I said don't worry about it. Besides, you're drunk." Abbie called over her shoulder, seconds before she bumped into a table and almost lost her footing.

"You are not exactly the picture of sobriety, yourself." Ichabod sighed and helped her right herself. She stiffened at his touch, her eyes flickering towards his and away again. " _I am taking you home_."

He fixed her with a look that told her he would take no refusal.

"Okaaaay." She ran her hands through her wavy hair and muttered: "Fine. Let's go."

She walked past him and out of the establishment without a backward glance.

" _Go after her, dude!_ " He heard Jenny hissing at his back. He turned to see her shooing him in Abbie's direction. Ichabod started and went after her at once.

"Leftenant, wait-!"

On his way out, he was unfortunate enough to run bodily into Star the burlesque dancer and her, God's wounds, absolutely _adamantine_ breasts!

"Handsome!" She squealed, pressing herself into him. He winced. He wasn't sure if it was because of the pain of her voice or the iron spheres she'd thrust into him. "I saw you making eyes at me all night!"

"Oh, Miss, ah...Star..." She was stumbling, very intoxicated, leaning oppressively into him. She wasn't much larger in figure than Abbie, but she seemed to come at him from all sides. All hair, roaming hands, and bountiful breasts. He struggled to untangle himself from her, his eyes darting toward the door where Abbie had disappeared, but her hands continued taking liberties with their proximity. "I was just on my way out-"

"When are you gonna come down to Trixie's and lemme give you a lamb dance?" She giggled and hiccupped. "Ha! Did I say lamb? I meant _lap_. _Lap dance_. Want one now? On the house, Handsome." She wiggled her pelvis into his crotch and he exhaled in annoyance, taking her by the arms and forcing her body away from his.

"No! No, thank you, no."

His 'Smart Phone' went off. He held a finger up at Star when he saw that it was a text from Abbie.

_'Are you coming or not, Crane?'_

He winced again, urgently stepping away from the muddled woman.

"Oh my god, that chick has such a brick up her ass!" She said. She had rudely read his text. She rolled her eyes and took a large gulp of her drink. He clenched his jaw, biting back a scathing retort before making his escape, fingers flexing. He heard her calling after him. "When you're done with _her_ , you just come on down to Trixie's any time, Handsome! Ask for Star! I'm the best you'll get, baby."

Ichabod closed his eyes in blessed relief as he exited the establishment. Abbie had hailed a taxi. He picked up his pace as she got inside and left the door open for him.

* * *

(Frank.)

 

"Okay, I got fifty bucks that says they go at it as soon as they hit the cabin door."

Irving chuckled at Jenny's quip. He shook his head. "I don't know, Mills. I'd be surprised if Crane even works up the nerve to try anything. He's probably gonna be a perfect gentleman and drop her off at her place and drag his pitiful self home all lanky and unsatisfied, like usual."

" _Oh please._ " Jenny rolled her eyes. " _A,_ give him more credit than that, didn't you hear that whole speech about his eighteenth century game? _B_ , he's been making googly eyes at her since I met him. And with Katrina out of the picture?" She stole his drink and took a sip. "He's about to blow, and so is Abbie for that matter." He watched as she leaned forward, drumming her fingers on the tabletop, her eyes encouraging in the most mischievous way.

"Come on, what do ya say, Cap?"

"I'll say 'I told you so' tomorrow." They shook on it. "And you better believe I'm gonna collect."

Jenny scoffed and got up to get them another round of drinks. "Yeah, yeah…we'll see about that."

He watched her go.

Frank didn't really care. They were used to this. Especially when they were 'off duty' and there was beer anywhere near Crane. He started silently pining after Mills and didn't think anyone could tell. But they could all tell. Well, maybe not Mills. That girl had a real good set of blinders on when it came to anything that made her vulnerable or distracted her from being a protector, a fighter, a damn good partner, and now a damn good Witness. She didn't do messy and complicated in her personal life, she'd once said to him five beers in at the precinct Christmas party. She was a cop, she had a past, and she had a job to do. That was it. Fair enough.

Frank also didn't care because he had his own pining to do. Well, he didn't pine. But he did feel something for Jenny Mills, and right now it was manifesting itself hard. He played it cool, usually tried to keep it 'professional'. They were partners and good friends. He was technically still married and she was a nomad who, like her sister, didn't do complicated. Only in a different way. She had lovers, but she didn't tie herself down, and she made that clear from the jump. That was something that always gave him pause. He played it cool, but wasn't sure if he could play it _that_ cool.

But he admired her. She was brave, and good, and fierce. She was a damn good fighter, and an excellent strategist. A passionate friend. She had gone to bat for him, and his family. And she was goddamned beautiful.

"Goddamned Mills sisters…" he muttered to himself. If he hadn't been strapped to his bed at Terrytown, he'd have thanked Mama Mills for raising two gorgeous, brave, badass women.

Jenny returned with their drinks and settled in next to him, staring at him as she ate the cherry from her cocktail. "So." She said.

He raised an eyebrow, swallowing some of his gin and tonic. The shine in her eyes made his jeans tighten uncomfortably. "So…" he said patiently, lowering his drink.

Jenny shrugged. "The way I figure it, Cap…you've been working your way up to making a move, yourself."

"Is that how you figure it?" Frank put his drink on the table, intrigued by her tone. Of course she wouldn't just let it be a normal 'guy approaches girl' thing. Of course she would make the first move, and of course it would be to challenge him to see her and raise her.

"You gonna deny it?"

"You make it hard for a man to argue, Mills."

"Blame it on my mama."

He laughed loudly but she only watched him, her eyes roaming freely over his chest and down below the table. Frank got serious. "I don't want this to be…" he couldn't think of how to explain himself.

"I'm not Abbie, Frank." Jenny cut him off. "And you're not a two hundred year old British guy. I don't bite. But I'll give you bonus points if _you_ do."

Frank thought about what she was saying, and finished his drink. Then he nodded. "Okay. So what's my move?"

She smiled. "Call us a cab."

He took his phone out of his pocket without hesitation.

* * *

(Ichabod.)

 

She was angry.

He could feel the tension coating the air in the backseat of this entirely too small conveyance.

Ichabod stole a glance at Abbie's profile as they rode in silence. Her jaw was taught, her brow furrowed. She was glaring so forcefully at the passing scenery that he fancied she might be trying to set it aflame with the sheer power of her mind.

Right. She was _very_ angry.

He raked his mind, trying to find the words that would ease her ire, but he could find none. And the more he thought, the more agitated he himself became. He looked over at her again, but she refused to turn his way.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"Just what. The hell. Was _that?_ " Abbie wheeled around to face him, her eyes ablaze. He quite nearly withered under her blistering gaze, but remembered himself and straightened his posture. He knew her well enough not to interrupt until she'd unleashed her pent up verbal assault. He did not expect her to mimic his voice, however. "'I am not _cute_ , _Lef-tenant_. I'm the dashing, handsome Ichabod Crane and I'm a flesh and blood _maaahhn,_ and you're a bitter, shriveled up old battleax who hides behind the _ahhmorr_ of being a Witness!'"

Nor did he expect her to actually _pantomime his hand gestures_.

He gaped at her, now quite nettled himself.

"Your mockery of me is _hardly_ _accurate_ , and your assessment of my statements is _most_ _unfair,_ especially after _you fled the scene_ before I could explain myself." He ground out, his jaw tightening with annoyance. "I simply meant that-"

He noticed that the scenery behind her was going in the opposite direction of the route to her apartment.

"Are we heading back to the cabin?" He gritted, his eyes narrowed to slits.

She rolled her eyes and muttered: "I left some stuff at the cabin anyway, so I'm seeing you home first."

Naturally, she had turned the tables so that it was _she_ who would be doing the escorting. "Must you challenge me on _everything_ I-?"

"Oh, please, Crane!" She spat, crossing her arms moodily and turning to stare through the window again. That lasted mere seconds before she turned back to berate him further. "Challenge you on getting dry-humped by Tits McGee the stripper?" He raised his eyebrows, taken aback. She continued. "...or how about braggin' about your swagger right before you basically called me an old maid?" He had never seen her so angry with him. " _Oh god_ , and then you got _Jenny_ started! What all of you seem to forget is that I'm so busy worried about the charming eighteenth century dude I'm supposed to save the world with (and whose _wife just died_ ) that I wouldn't have time to date even if I wanted to! Ever think of that? Or, how about it's _none of your business_ what I do with _my_ sex life, Crane?"

"Do you believe I _enjoy_ being a burden to you? Or have I somehow inconvenienced you when I stopped grieving?" He shouted, despite himself. "You act as if you know _everything_ about my motivations, my mind, my _heart! But you do not!_ "

The cabbie darted his eyes apprehensively at them through the rearview mirror but they ignored him. It was Ichabod's turn to face Abbie moodily. The cab bumped and lolled along as he gripped the seat in one hand and the window apparatus separating them from the cabbie in another.

They sat in tense silence for a few moments while he stared hard at her, trying to quell his frustration. She glared right back at him, her arms still crossed defiantly. He made his voice steady.

"You claim that you know me. You mocked me tonight in jest, but you gravely underestimate how much I care for..."

He shouldn't continue the way he wanted to. It wasn't the time or place. He knew that. But he had to make her see how her dismissal of him in that regard, time and again, as lighthearted as it seemed on the surface, actually scathed.

"...our bond." He finished, but moved on quickly. "You think I'm...I'm this...ancient, bumbling... _fussbucket!_ You think I'm _cute_." He bit out the word fiercely, causing her to blink in surprise. "You mock my manner as though I'm some sort of curious foundling. Because I am-for _now_ -dependent on you, should that rob me of my manhood? Am I always to be your ward? Hm? Your pet?"

Her jaw dropped. "You are _not_ my-!"

"But you treat me as such!" She closed her eyes in frustration, attempting to turn away from him again, but he would not allow her. " _Look at me_ , Abbie. _See me_."

Her eyes opened at the sound of her first name, and she looked hurt and confused. Ugh, she thought his use of her first name was somehow a punishment, but he wanted so badly to tell her that it was actually how he saw her...she was his Abbie. He wondered if he should continue, now, like this, in the back of this tiny conveyance, sloshed as he was, suddenly angry as he was...desperate as he was to...to…

He wanted to kiss her. Lord, what he wouldn't give to feel her lips on his, and taste her tongue in his mouth. To let his hands roam, caressing and gripping all the parts of her he'd been curious about for so long. Could she tell? Did it matter? He could not do that here. But her pursed lips beckoned to him, and for a moment his frustration melted to intense, almost overwhelming longing. Perhaps she could only see the anger on his face, but underneath he was desperate to pull her towards him.

The cab pulled up to the road leading to the cabin, breaking the spell.

"I see you, Crane…" she uttered softly, some of her anger fading away.

Now, she simply looked exhausted. He deflated, fearing he'd said too much, even as he held everything back. He could see her walls rising again as she paid for the cab and slid out of the door, walking into the darkness of the path that led up to the cabin.

"Wonderful." He sighed long and hard, running a hand over his face and through his hair before following her.

* * *

"Well, you've certainly outdone yourself, haven't you?" Ichabod grumbled under his breath, following after her in the dark, and actually feeling, quite infuriatingly, like a lost pet. "Destined to be the man enamored of stubborn, unattainable women."

He was still angry, but he also wanted to apologize profusely. And then still, he wanted to force her to admit that he was more to her than just Crane 'the charming eighteenth century dude'.

But he simply followed, watching her petite silhouette stalking through the darkness.

She left the cabin door open for him. He found her just over the threshold, her hands on her hips and her head down. When he saw her there, all of his anger left him at once. He didn't like it when she was upset with him; he certainly didn't like it when she refused to look at him. He could only stand it for so long, and he'd forgotten his ire just that quickly.

Just as he opened his mouth, she turned around, and they spoke over each other.

"Crane, look, I'm sorry-"

"Leftenant, please forgive me…"

They both paused, relieved smiles spreading across their faces. He inclined his head. "Permit me?"

Her smile remained as she crossed her arms and settled herself, leaning against the back of the couch. "Well, this oughta be good...do proceed, sir."

Ichabod closed the door behind him and stepped forward, flexing his fingers restlessly at his sides. He took a moment to calm himself, pushing down the intoxication swimming through his veins. He wanted to be closer to her, but he stood his ground.

Right now she needed her friend to apologize to her, not some drunken, lecherous blackguard accusing her of being a…'shriveled battleax'... all because he couldn't contain his desperate affection for her. It wasn't her fault that he chose to grapple with his feelings for her by surreptitiously stalking her every move and garnering secret pleasure in massaging her feet, for pity's sake.

"Crane?"

Her voice roused him from mentally raking himself over the coals. She raised her eyebrows at him when he came out of his dark thoughts.

"You were just apologizing?"

"Ah, right, yes." He cleared his throat. "It is I who've been unfair. I was behaving like an arse, and I cannot express in mere words how sorry I am to have offended you, truly."

"Good start. Go on…"

He looked at her, and her eyes gleamed. She was still 'buzzed', he could tell. Her smooth cheeks were somewhat flushed as well. Her usual officer's poise was relaxed and her smile was soft; patient. He felt desire thunder through him, but he returned her soft smile and pushed on. "My behavior was inexcusable. I was out of order and you were right to set me straight."

"You've been drinking, and you've been through a lot. It's okay." Abbie replied softly, shrugging with her arms still crossed. "I get it."

"No, Leftenant...Abbie. Please let me explain."

He sighed hard and this time could not stop himself from moving closer to her.

"I should not have lost my temper with you. I should not have...publicly exposed my twit-headed analysis of your personal affairs. You are no 'old maid', Leftenant. You are a woman who loves with everything she has in her..." He couldn't help the tenderness that seeped into his voice. "You're capable of more love than you can imagine.

"You are...my _dearest_ friend. My partner. And a most remarkable woman. I cannot tell you how much your friendship has meant to me. Our bond has carried us through so much, and you've cared for me in every regard, every step of the way. Especially at my darkest hour."

He winced, thinking of how despondent he'd been in the aftermath of Katrina and Henry's deaths. Jeremy...his son's name was _Jeremy_. He pushed those thoughts away.

"I made a vow to put our bond before anything else. But you've carried the lion's share for six months now. Please permit me return the service. I wish to see you fulfilled beyond our victories in this war, beyond our doughnut holes and this cabin and my, truth be told, _excellent_ singing voice..."

She burst into genuine laughter then, and it sent a thrill straight through him.

"I have become a local 'rock star' you know," he continued drolly as she laughed harder. "'Tits McGee' told me herself, hadn't you heard?"

Abbie stood up, waving her hands in surrender, her smile resplendent. "Okay, okay, that'll do, Crane. That'll do."

He watched her approach him, her small frame dwarfed by his much taller one. She stared at his collar for a moment as he waited with bated breath, holding his hands behind his back.

"Look, Crane...I, uh…" Finally, she looked up into his face. "I know how hard losing Katrina and Henry was for you. And I'm sorry if I made you feel like some pet project of mine. You gotta know that you're much more than that to me. I've been worried about you. I needed to make sure you were okay. That was me trying to be a friend, not me trying to control you."

Her eyes burrowed into his and he found himself riveted by her expression. She squeezed his arm tenderly.

"You're not a pet. You're not a fussbucket, whatever the hell that means..." she dipped her head from side to side, smiling wryly. "I mean you are a little particular, but-" She laughed when he grumbled and rolled his eyes. " _But_...I'm sorry I made fun of your...manhood, or whatever. I guess I just don't want to see you on the losing end of a rebound, you know?"

Ichabod frowned.

Abbie exhaled, scratching her forehead. "Um...rebound, it's when you get involved with someone to...ah...forget someone else."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I get it. You want...more...than this. And as long as we keep our eyes open and our feet on the ground in this war...I got your back while you figure yourself out. You can't be a recluse in this cabin forever."

Ichabod considered her for a moment. She was avoiding his gaze again. Talking about these matters did make her uneasy. He had a hypothesis, but he needed to work it out. She was like an extremely bewitching puzzle to him. If it were at all possible, he would spend all of his time trying to unravel it.

"I'm just saying: I'll never call you cute again, and you're right. You need to get out there and flex your independence. You need to be your own man-you _are_ your own man. If you say you're ready, then you're ready. You and me are good. Go. Date. Do you. I won't stand in your way."

He gave a slight nod but remained silent for a moment, gripping his hands together behind his back. He was torn. He wanted to tell her that he _did_ want more. But not from a date with a stranger. He wanted more with _her_.

"And what about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"Do you wish to 'flex your independence'?" He closed the space between them, his breath slowing to a crawl. "Do you wish to…'do you'? Date?"

Abbie looked up at him and was so silent for so long that he was afraid he might have overstepped her boundaries yet again. He was also, he realized, afraid of what she might say. But then she simply shook her head. "I'm fine, Crane. I'm a soldier, like you said. I like it that way."

He nodded and stepped back. Her walls were up again. 'Fine' was a word she used far too often. So often that he was beginning to suspect she used it as a shield to keep prying souls at bay. He was simultaneously relieved and dismayed that the moment had long since slipped away from him to make a serious confession to her. He had been at this for weeks, trying to think of a way to let her in, to tell her the whole truth. There never seemed to be an appropriate moment. And, he knew in his heart, it wouldn't be a subtle, easy shift in their relationship. It would be a massive disruption. One deserving of a great deal more consideration than blurting it out a sloppy confession in a drunken lapse of self-control.

Her phone buzzed, and she jumped, pulling it quickly out of her back jeans pocket. He watched her read a text message she'd received. She scoffed and put the phone to sleep, now blinking up at him. "So it looks like Frank is sleeping over at my place."

Ichabod smirked. Jenny had been temporarily living with Abbie in her single bedroom dwelling while they worked the kidnapping case, and there could be only one reason she thought to invite Captain Irving there. He had seen the two of them getting close to each other over the last few weeks.

"And Miss Jenny has tied the proverbial 'shoelace around the doorknob', has she?" He quipped, causing her to roll her eyes and ground out a hard sigh.

"Uh, yeah, looks that way." She squinted up at him. "Mind if I crash here tonight?"

Ichabod gave her an ' _obviously not'_ look. "This is _your_ home. I'm on borrowed land, please do whatever you like."

Abbie wagged a finger at him. "Corbin left it to me, and you've been taking care of it much better than I could. It's your place, Crane."

"For now, true," he countered. "I intend to return your inheritance to you in due time. But for now and always...do feel free to 'crash'. Any time you like."

She laughed, and he watched as her laughter turned to a yawn that she tried and failed to stifle. He could not help a wistful smile overcoming him. Here is when she would leave his company, and he would miss her the instant she was gone until he found something to occupy his mind (usually thoughts of her, and trying to puzzle her out...or trying to bring her to climax).

"The hour is late, Leftenant." He said, hoping she didn't catch the reluctance in his voice.

"Yep. I got the couch."

He proffered a finger at her. "Absolutely not. To the bedroom with you, I'll take the couch."

Instead of protesting, Abbie reached up and hugged him. "Hey. I'm glad we got that straightened out."

He was caught off guard, but he quickly returned her embrace. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her small body into his, gently lifting her to the tips of her toes. He turned his head to whisper in her ear through her wavy, spicy-sweet smelling locks.

"Don't worry about me, Abbie. I made my choice."

"I know, Crane…" she sighed into him. "We both did."

"Must you sleep? We could watch a Netflix? Your choice this time." He couldn't help himself. He wanted more time with her. He wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms.

Abbie laughed softly into his collar. "You're a trip." She sighed, stepping back from him. He reluctantly let her go, his hands sliding from her body. "As much as I would love to show you 'Coming to America' finally, Reyes wants to brief me on this big case first thing, and you know we can't afford to be on her bad side."

He nodded. "Point taken. Goodnight, then..."

Abbie yawned again and started towards the back bedroom. "Night, Crane."

* * *

"Crane?"

He was instantly roused from a half-sleep by the sound of her voice, and his name. Ichabod blinked away the darkness veiling his vision to discover her standing in shadow at the foot of the couch.

"Abbie…" he breathed, sitting up.

Her hair was loose, crowning her heart-shaped face. She was wearing her favorite 'Run DMC' t-shirt. It swallowed her practically whole, stopping just below the apex of her thighs. Her legs and feet were bare. All her edges had softened, the ones she wore as an officer and a Witness every day. Now she was diminutive; aglow in the pale moonlight, her eyes glinting. He swallowed down an instant swell of yearning.

"Are you alright?"

Abbie stepped into the moonlight. "Couldn't sleep."

She hesitated, looking like a goddess in the pale light, her eyes large and her lips pink.

She was absolutely drowning in the t-shirt. That was something that always fascinated him, ever since he'd first glimpsed her in one of her 'sleeping shirts' as she called them. Always old and frayed around the edges, always oversized, as if she couldn't bear to expose her petite figure to anyone free of her sleek, form-fitting work clothes. She looked more vulnerable somehow, swallowed by these garments. Her exposed legs gave away her true frame, and her silken brown skin.

Ichabod stood and made room for her to sit, never taking his eyes off of her as she slid onto the couch.

"What's troubling you?" he asked softly, sitting near her. He was bare-chested and his hair was disheveled. He ran a hand through it, attempting to tame it absentmindedly. His missing shirt he could do nothing about. He wasn't quite sure where it had gone, and all of his spares were in the bedroom.

Abbie chuckled halfheartedly. "Nothing. I just...couldn't sleep." She shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Too much on my mind."

He gestured to the room at large. "Well, I'm all ears."

Abbie stared at him for a long while. He sat still, watching her watch him. She looked...troubled. As if she'd been weighing something heavily in her mind and was afraid to speak on it. He was intrigued, and still a bit drunk, and incredibly attracted to her. His hands itched to touch her, his arms ached to hold her. He sat very still at first, but soon couldn't help reaching over to take her hand.

"Abbie, please know that you can confide in me. If you do not wish it, whatever's on your mind shall go no further than this moment between us."

She looked down at his hand holding hers, and slowly turned her palm upward, splaying her fingers so that he could slide his between them. He did so, locking their fingers together; his long, lean and strong; hers much smaller and softer. He looked up at her again, but she remained watching their hands. The moonlight shined through the kitchen windows, casting haunting shadows across her beautiful face.

"When I was trapped in 1781…" she began, still not looking at him, "I was so scared." She scoffed and raised her face to the ceiling, her eyes distant as she remembered her ordeal. "So many crazy ass things happened, but you know what? In the middle of all of it, the worst part was that _you_ didn't know me."

She looked at him finally. He was taken aback by the expression on her face. She looked so vulnerable, and so absolutely stunning. Without thinking, he released her hand to reach over and pull her towards him.

Abbie was silent as Ichabod took her by the waist and pulled her closer to him. He secured her there with one arm, and reached up with his free hand to move a lock of her hair away from her eyes.

"But you convinced me... _of course_ you convinced me, Leftenant." She crushed her eyes closed and made a happy noise when he called her 'Leftenant'. He grew serious, running his thumb across her cheek gently as he gathered his courage and whispered: "Whether in my time or yours, I know now that I would be lost without you. And because of you, I learnt it then."

She shook her head. "How can you be so sure? Being in your time, Crane…" Abbie exhaled slowly. "You looked at me and you...you didn't trust me at all. Now I think I really understand how you must've felt when we first met. I had no idea from one moment to the next whether you would arrest me, give me up to get carted off as a slave or have me committed. It fuckin' _sucked_."

" _You. Convinced. Me._ As only you could." He gave her waist a gentle squeeze, leaning his head towards hers. She was so small and warm and soft. "As only you were meant to..."

In an instant of intense need, Ichabod couldn't stop himself from gently nuzzling her hair with his nose and mouth.

He was becoming increasingly consumed with longing. It was filling him persistently, and he knew she would soon feel it as well. It was only a matter of precious little time before his body would give him away. She turned her head towards him now, her eyes beseeching.

"I was so scared you wouldn't believe me." She paused, and when she spoke next her voice was deeper, stronger. "I can take care of myself. But this is _war_ , Crane. And it's a big, messy, scary one. I don't think I can do this without you…" Abbie trailed off, looking as though she wanted to say more. She didn't speak further however.

"You'll always have me." Ichabod replied firmly, staring at her lips. He wanted to act; he strained not to press himself into her. He waited and watched for her reaction.

"Promise me, Crane." Though she spoke, she wouldn't look at him.

"I promise you... _you will always have me_. Through this war, and the next, and as long as I draw breath. I will never, ever leave your side." He swallowed, his heart now thundering in his chest. He was dimly intoxicated, exhausted, and nursing a very intense attraction. He should not say what he was about to; he knew he risked causing her to flee from him and cast her walls up again-perhaps this time irrevocably. But another part of him poked and prodded and called him a coward for pretending for so long that he was anything other than utterly, heart-wrenchingly, foolishly, frustratingly in love with her. "Abbie... _I absolutely adore you_..."

"You-what?" Her eyes flew up to meet his, growing ever larger with astonishment as his words sunk in.

"You heard me."

Ichabod felt a slow burn roil through him, coming to rest in his groin. He was erect, now, and painfully aware that she would notice at any second. But he didn't care. She was here, in his arms, and he was not going to allow her to run away from him. She needed to know: she _ruled_ _his heart_. He tightened his embrace of her next to him. He could feel the heat of her flesh in his hands through the fabric of her shirt. She was his. He felt desperately possessive just then, and as he stroked her side through her shirt he vowed to protect and care for her with all that he had in him.

"I love you." His voice grew deep and thick with the emotion of his confession. He held her small body in his hands, his fingers seeking out the smooth, warm planes of her skin. He pressed her still closer to him, his expression deadly serious. "You have my heart. You have always had it. You always shall."

Her lips parted, a small gasp escaped her, and Ichabod's honorable restraint finally broke. He had lain awake many nights wondering what in her endless arsenal of tempting qualities would do it, so naturally he hadn't expected it to be a simple, sweet exhalation. It would be such an insignificant gesture if given by anyone other than the bewitching woman sitting in his arms. But because it was his Abbie, it was his undoing.

He leaned forward with a long, slow, prowling push of air through his nostrils, capturing her lips fiercely with his own. _Mmmm_...but she was soft all over, including her sumptuous, velveteen lips.

His body instantly reacted to the feel of her lips against his, and he gripped her tighter as pure, carnal lust engulfed him. At first Abbie merely whimpered and braced herself against him, still stunned by his confession. But then Ichabod set about tasting her lips over and over again with increasing intensity, and she melted into him. Abbie raised her hands to his hair, sliding her fingers through his locks to hold onto his neck before finally kissing him back.

He parted her lips with his and kissed her more deeply, his hands now roaming across her back and over her exposed thighs. Ichabod groaned deep in his throat once her tongue met his and circled it slowly, expertly. He couldn't stop himself from taking hold of her and moving her from his side to his lap. Abbie unfurled herself against him, slowly straddling him, holding him by the neck as she kissed him tenderly. She sank her lithe body down onto his, her curves grinding into his lean frame as he ran his hands slowly up her thighs.

He came to the perfectly apple-shaped curves of her rear and indulged himself, gripping her there eagerly as he peppered her with kisses across her mouth, cheeks, and under her jaw line.

"Mmm...Crane?" he clutched at her again at the sound of her husky voice breathing out his name, gripping handfuls of her warm flesh with his limber fingers. Her voice was soft, deep, and coated with desire. "What are we doing?"

"What does it feel like we're doing, Leftenant?" he replied, his voice just as heavy with desire as hers was. He kissed a slow, exploratory trail from just below her ear down the length of her neck, finally coming to exhale his warm breath onto the two round peaks of her breasts through her t-shirt.

"Feels…" She gasped and moaned and, grinding herself steadily into him when he gently suckled her breast through the threadbare cotton of her shirt. "...damn good."

"Then hush." He commanded softly, and she obeyed.

The exquisite heat from between her thighs brushed against his rock hard erection and he feared he might lose every ounce of restraint that he still had left.

He wanted this shirt off of her. He paused and leaned back, staring up at her in the moonlight. Her lips were lightly swollen and her eyelids had dropped low across her sparkling eyes, her lashes like dark veils.

"I want to see you…" he breathed.

Abbie stared at him for a moment, but he didn't falter. He knew she felt him, long and hard, pressing persistently against her molten sex through their clothes. Her fingertips grazed his bare chest, ghosting over the large, jagged scar where the Horseman's broadax had ripped him open as she considered his request. He gazed up at her, letting her see the whole, unabashed truth in his eyes: Unless she told him to stop, he intended to make love to her tonight. And it would not be cute. Or polite. It was going to be every bit as intense and indulgent as his most haunting fantasies of her. But right now, he had to see her.

She took hold of her shirt and pulled it up, not taking her eyes off of his. He exhaled slowly, watching in complete captivation as her nearly naked body was finally revealed to him. She threw the shirt over his shoulder, behind the couch, and blinked rapidly at him, demuring somewhat. He wanted to smile tenderly but he didn't want her to shy from him.

Ichabod sat up straight, holding her by the hips, and caught her eyes with his. Hers were large and round and shining with anticipation, her lips parted. He slowly dragged his gaze from her face to her body. He was looking at her for the first time, fully exposed, and he wanted to memorize every curve for examination later.

She was perfect, of course. Her skin was smooth as silk, yet lush as velvet. Her small breasts were round and full; her nipples alert and springy and beckoning to him. Her petite waist sloped inward and then curved outward, forming the round shape of her lovely bottom. She was wearing small white panties...so small and sheer that even in the dim light, he could quite clearly see that she was wet, and... _damn it all_...he inhaled at the sight of her and caught her natural scent.

That was it. He had to have her. Now.

Ichabod grabbed hold of her and stood abruptly, lifting her from the couch. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, gripping his shoulders for balance as he determinedly carried her towards the bedroom.

He expected her to protest, but she didn't. She simply held onto him as they crossed into the dark room.

He sat her down and knelt immediately before her, his eyes burning into hers with the full seriousness of his intentions. She bit her lip as it dawned on her that he wasn't going to simply take her and be done with it. He may be ancient, but he was no prude. Ichabod enjoyed sex with the same voracity and devotion to perfection that he had for everything he did. Fuse that intense will with his heart, and make the subject of his focus the woman who ruled it with her every breath, her every gesture…

Ichabod dropped his eyes from hers and ran a hand through his hair, taking it out of his face. He heard Abbie sigh softly above him. He didn't want to look at her again, because he knew the look on her face would drive him mad. He wanted to focus. Give her glistening, swollen bud the reverent attention it deserved. He slowly parted her legs. Ah, she was so moist.

His cock twitched and tightened underneath his pajama trousers. He wanted to be slow, deliberate; but the sight of her, teasing him through the soaked fabric of her delicate underwear, made his restraint slip. He leaned forward suddenly, taking her by the thighs and tugging her possessively towards his face.

" _Ugh, ohhh…!_ " Abbie grunted, then moaned when he hungrily drove his hot, wet tongue up the length of her and suckled her through the treacherously thin fabric of her panties.

He opened his mouth wider, moving her panties to the side with his finger and thrusting his tongue inside of her all in the next breath. "Fuck!" she gasped in surprise, her delivery conjuring up images for him of the tough little Abbie he loved to watch on the battlefield.

Her fingers found their way into his long hair, and she gasped again, thrusting her hips at his face as Ichabod growled and licked her up and down slowly.

"Ohh, Ichabod!"

He paused, his heart thumping in his chest. That didn't sound like her. That sounded like...she gripped him harder and he remembered that he had his Abbie in his arms, _mmm_...in his mouth. He had dreamed of this moment for so long, and she was wet and hot and her flesh felt exquisitely plump in his hands. _Abbie, Abbie, Abbie_...his Abbie was in his bed, he wanted to taste her until she came crashing down around him, and he would lap up every ounce of her precious juices.

"Mmm...Ichabod what's gotten into you tonight?" Katrina moaned, surprised that her usually gentle husband could be capable of such lecherous behavior. Well, he would show her. His passion for her would be well proven tonight.

But wait. That made no sense. Abbie. It was _Abbie_ he was-

"Ichabod."

His heart stopped. The voice calling his name was not Abbie's. The skin he touched now was not warm. His stomach turned suddenly.

"Ichabod."

 _No. This cannot be._ He could not look up. Suddenly, he could see nothing but pale, cold skin underneath his fingers. _He could not look up._ Nor could he breathe.

" _Ichabod…_ " the voice teased, his name pronounced as only Katrina would. Except Katrina was no longer alive, and this voice had a hollow echo to it that sent a gargantuan chill down his spine. " _Ichabod! Oh, Ichabod!_ " The echoing voice called cruelly, pretending to be his Abbie in the throes of pleasure.

Finally, he gathered his courage and slowly looked up, his head feeling like an iron anchor and his skin developing goose pimples. His eyes traveled the valley of naked, pale, nearly-translucent skin to the most frightening pair of deep green eyes he had ever seen. They were Katrina's, but they were evil in a way that he could taste in the back of his throat. Like death.

He felt broken, pressed into the floor as though the frigid air in the room was attempting to crush him with all its strength. Those dark, dead green eyes were set deep into an impossibly pale face, draped in shadow, crowned by floating, fiery red hair. It was indeed Katrina. _And she stared him down, down, down into some unknown, murky depths._ It was a terrifying and heart-wrenching sight.

Then she screamed: " _ICHABOOOOD!_ "

Her voice was like a rotting death rattle projected through a thousand horns.

Ichabod felt as though his heart had ruptured before he woke up shouting " _No!"_ drenched in an ice-cold sweat ** _._**


	2. in dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They crept toward him like vines in the dark, Ichabod's desire and his dread. But to what end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took me so long to update! I'm very hard on myself when I'm writing something I'm really, really into. Plus, with work it's often hard to find the time to do personal writing at all. So it sometimes take longer than I'd like. But enough excuses! Hope you enjoy!

 

 

> _hands down,_
> 
> _i’m too proud for love_
> 
> _but eyes shut,_
> 
> _it’s you i’m thinking of_

 

_-Little Bit, Lykke Li_

 

* * *

 

 

 

(Abbie.)

 

Abbie’s body was being assaulted by tingly warmth that seemed to spread outward from the intense, throbbing heat between her thighs. Damn, she was horny.

The memory of Crane’s long, strong arms encircling her and squeezing gently was persistent. And the way his voice deepened as he whispered in her ear before she escaped to the bedroom. So was the thought of his burning gaze in the cab; the frustration brimming forth through his dark blue eyes.

The things he’d said to her tonight…all that talk about being a man. About biding his time to earn a woman’s affections. It was sexy shit. She had struggled mightily to maintain her composure, sitting so close to him in that booth, his naturally sweet, musky scent overwhelming her, surrounding her on all sides.

It was like he could see right through her act. He had exposed her. And aroused her. All in one long, impeccably articulated string of Crane-isms. She knew it was because he’d been drinking. She hoped he had no idea how his words truly affected her. She wanted to blame the beer for this too, she was definitely not sober either, but she also knew she’d been holding this in for weeks. No, months.

 _Damn it, why do I let him get to me like this?_   

Abbie tossed and turned, angry at her throbbing libido for making her fixate on Crane’s strawberry tinted lips…the way his eyes darkened as he explained how men of his ‘ilk’ operated back in the day…his slender, expressive fingers gripping the seat of the cab. Maybe he would entwine those fingers with hers as he pressed her into the mattress. Maybe that’s the kind of lover he was. She squirmed, her clit throbbing slowly, her panties becoming soaked, clinging to her sex. She imagined his weight on top of her; her small thighs wrapped around his long body.

 _Fuck. Stop it, Abbie_.

For several long months, she had tried to ignore the feeling that she wanted him. She wanted him all over, touching, whispering, stroking, grinding…

She had no idea when the thoughts started--maybe they’d been there for far longer than that--but she knew that they were becoming increasingly intense with each passing week. She tried very hard to hide it, throwing herself into their work, but it only seemed to make things worse.

At first it had just been like always: little things about him tickled her, endeared him to her. Then she started noticing his slow smile, how his eyes caught hers and didn’t let go while he spoke to her as though they were the only two people in the universe. Didn’t matter what he was saying; it could be _‘here is your coffee, Leftenant.’_ That _look_ in his eyes started stirring up feelings inside her that were far more intense than amusement. How tender he was; how much care he took to support her, let her know that he appreciated her, reminding her that they were in this together. And she couldn’t help it. She soon started watching him more, studying him when he wasn’t looking, taking care to think of him when she was out doing anything:

 _‘What would Crane want to eat?’, ‘Ha—I’ll bet Crane would get a kick out of this’, ‘I hope Crane isn’t waiting up…wait actually I hope he is…I just want to be close to him and hear him talk for a little bit, and maybe he could give me one of those amazing foot massages…’_ , _‘Damn, he looks good in that shirt…’, ‘Look at that big ass brain of his go…shit, that’s sexy.’_

And those thoughts produced deeper, more intense, more inappropriate feelings that she had to work overtime to hide.

Did he notice? Did it matter? She wasn’t about to admit to it. God, if he knew...then she’d _really_ be exposed. And he’d no doubt be mortified, despite his fervent protests of being thought of as a ‘fussbucket’.

 He _was_ a gentleman. Honorable. Loyal. And _damn sexy_. She could no longer ignore that last part.

 He was also a soldier. A bit of a polymath.  A man out of time. A widower. Definitely not a puppy.

_“...am I always to be your ward? Hm? Your **pet**?”_

She thought of him, turned to face her in that tiny ass cab, his eyes blazing. His words had stung like hell. Was that really how he felt about their friendship? That she coddled him? Treated him like less than the remarkable man that he was? How had she gotten so caught up in trying to hide her feelings from him that she ended up turning him into a foxhound?

Abbie rolled over, sighing hard, unable to shake the image of Crane in the cab, his brow furrowed, his eyes deep and perturbed, his jaw set into a hard, angular line.

She hated it when he was mad at her, but she could never seem to escape noticing how _fine_ he was. It was so unfair. Even then, the red tint of the taillights at the intersection made him look broody and sexy as hell. He was wearing one of his new brown coats (she had searched high and low until she finally found a place online that specially made reenactment clothing) and a dark blue, linen button-down shirt. His hair was loose and wavy; he had it hanging just past his shoulders these days. She had pressed herself hard into the door on her side of the cab, hoping it was locked, keeping her distance so he wouldn’t be able to see how attracted she was to him in her eyes.  

But it wasn’t just his looks. It was how everything within him shaped who he was. Not just a man out of time, but a man of morals, nobility, and honor. Always striving to be a better version of himself. She was slowly discovering these things as time went by, and she got a big dose of knowledge dropped on her when she met the version of him that existed long before they met.

She could see more of the Crane from the past in him, now. He was not to be trifled with when he was angry. He had once commanded men; led them into battle. Watching him stride around back in 1781 was a total trip, and she could see more of that man, that soldier, in Crane now than ever before. It was _that_ version of Crane that she’d been hiding from all this time; that version that she’d been pretending didn’t affect her so.

The fussbucket was easier to dismiss. Easier to be just friends with. If she allowed herself to see the Crane that he showed her tonight...he would see through her act like she was made of cellophane. He was too observant. Too intelligent. She had to keep herself in check constantly or the jig would be up.

Abbie finally settled on her back in the old bed that was way too big for her (but just big enough for Crane’s long body, she suspected...great, now she was thinking about all six feet, two inches of him slumbering naked in this bed). She stared at the ceiling and listened to the silence, and all she wanted was to talk to Crane. Hear his voice; trade sarcastic one-liners with him; have his strong hands massage her feet.

She had to meet with Reyes first thing, but the minutes ticked by, and she just couldn’t go to sleep. She found herself plagued with a heavy, throbbing heat hovering stubbornly inside her. A longing she knew she couldn’t feed. The frustrating thing was that Jenny was right. She needed release. But part of her, deep down, knew that just getting off wouldn’t cut it. Not for this.

Abbie absentmindedly rubbed her thighs together, trying to stop thinking about Crane. Picking up a guy seemed like a cakewalk compared to navigating her feelings about the wiry man sleeping on the couch less than twenty feet away. She didn’t _want_ some random dude. She wanted…

Shit. He had been trying to tell her that he wanted to be free. Freer than he’d felt the last few months, because of her. She had only been trying to be a good friend (and disguise her longing, she reluctantly had to admit). But apparently he thought of her as this...sexless...stern...not fun prison warden. That was her fault. That was the Abbie she’d been showing him. Because the alternative was scary.

Forget about the hurt that she barely let herself feel before she put it on lockdown. The _guilt_ she felt over what happened to Katrina and Henry rippled through her, staying her horniness for a moment.

This was a mess. She needed to fix it, pronto. She had pushed him, constantly hammering her righteous “Witnesses First” attitude into him. She had given him no choice before Katrina died, had she? All because what? She didn’t trust him to keep his head on straight around the woman he loved. She didn’t trust herself not to long for more than what they had. She didn’t trust that he wouldn’t abandon her for Katrina, leave her alone and holding all her guilt and mixed up feelings on her shoulders like her Mama and Jenny and Corbin.

She’d been laboring under the assumption that she was making what they had good. Solid. A life. If they kept things going like this, she could get through the next seven years. Work. Apocalypse. Crane. She’d been fooling herself. The reality was that she was at his beck and call, trying to somehow prove to him that he’d made the right choice. But that had blown up in her face apparently. He wanted more than what her friendship--their ‘bond’, as he called it--could offer.

She felt the hurt again, but shoved it back down into the dark where it belonged.

He was right. How could she think he would want to just hang around Corbin’s cabin forever, consulting on her cases from Reyes every now and then when they weren’t busy apocalypse-busting? Sure, they’d been at a steady pace for the last six months, which left them little time to do anything but lay around on the couch once a week, her watching TV and he pretending to pay attention while reading or massaging her feet (her favorite, _favorite_ thing these days). And sometimes they’d get to go out with Jenny and Frank and drink their woes away. But now that leads on Henry’s network had gone cold, there was no telling when anything else would kick up. What was she gonna do, invent shit for them to hunt? All to cover up her stupid guilt?

They had gone through every inch, every word of The Grand Grimoir and Mama’s journal. She felt like she was waiting on something that was playing hide and seek with her. When she returned from the past, she had felt certain that things would start to make more sense from now on. But things were just as uncertain as ever.

They were fighting a war, but they were still alive. She had a job to do, she had her sister back, and she was back with her version of Crane...well, maybe not much else, but that didn’t mean that Crane had to be as solitary as she was. How could he ever get accustomed to the world if he never experienced it? She couldn’t keep him to herself. And try as she might, no matter how many nights of sleep she lost or what new thing she thought of to teach him or show him, she was only one person and she could not be his world. She wasn’t big enough. She wasn’t good enough.

_No, really. Stop it._

She thought of him, lying out there, his long limbs nearly overcoming the small couch. At first, he had just been this…strange, funny, frustrating man dropped into her life on the heels of a jarring, disturbing loss. A man who caused an instant reaction in her. The moment he spoke. She remembered his first words exactly. She didn’t have Crane’s perfect memory but she had that gut feeling. _He knew exactly what she’d seen._ And suddenly, with those words, she felt tethered to this man.

Ichabod Crane. Nothing about their pairing should work. They were so different in so many ways. Yet somehow it did. It _worked_. That lanky, handsome, impossible man had somehow become Abbie’s world. Damn it, she was in trouble.

No. She could do this. She had mastered her self control a long time ago. She knew how to get on with things and come apart in the dark when she was alone. That’s what she was good at, and that’s what she would have to hold onto. Duty first. As a Witness, she would be vigilant, strong, and shrewd. As Crane’s friend, she needed to make sure that he knew he could be free to try to start a life outside this war. She would be his friend, his fellow Witness, and help him out with that, however she could. She owed him that.

Plus, she knew him, and she knew that he would always put their bond; their _mission_ ; first. Not to trust him on his word would just be stupid at this point.

And she would lay in the dark and think about him. Maybe just for a little while. Until it was time to move on and make peace with it.

She was tired. Abbie still felt warm and tingly and thoughts of Crane’s long body wrapped around hers lingered in her head...but she realized that she was also just really, really tired. Maybe this _was_ a good thing. Crane could go be a flesh-and-blood man and Abbie could get some damned rest.

She would start over in the morning. She could do that. It would be better. Let him go meet a nice girl…find a job. He needed a job. That would help.

Finally she drifted off into a deep, dark, silent sleep.

The next morning, she woke up to the sound of Crane hollering in the living room.

“NO!”

Abbie bolted upright, the fog of her late night ramblings rushing away from her, causing her head to spin. Ugh, she shouldn’t have had so many beers…

“LEFTENANT? _ABBIE!”_

She jumped up and scaled the length of the room. Abbie grabbed the spare gun from the top dresser drawer (the one Corbin had kept, and that she’d passed on to Crane for his protection) and stumbled out into the hall, her guard up.

“Crane!” When she made it into the living room, she only found Crane on his feet, shirtless, breathing hard as hell. When he spotted her he rushed towards her, his tall frame overpowering hers, startling her a bit.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He was backing her into the wall, his eyes dark and blazing with almost wild concern, fingers flexing.

“I’m okay. Hey...” Abbie took two big steps away from him, lowering her gun. She felt a little silly for rushing in like a one-woman S.W.A.T. team. She should have known; they’d been through this enough times. He had been having bad dreams ever since Katrina died. She had been startled awake by his night terrors at least twice a week for a two-month stretch once. Since they began closing in on the end of Henry’s food chain, she thought they’d moved passed them, but she wasn’t a freakin’ psychiatrist.

First order of business was to calm him down. She began their routine.

“Just breathe, okay? Come on, in and out…”

Ichabod did as she instructed and stopped himself from devouring any more of her personal space, visibly making an effort to calm down. He ran both hands through his hair, looking her over thoroughly before he started to breathe the way they practiced. Abbie looked around, not wishing to meet his intense gaze just yet, making sure they were indeed alone and that it was as she suspected—just a bad dream.

When she finally looked at him again, she noticed that he was as white as a sheet. “Jesus, Crane. Are _you_ alright?”

He nodded, backing up unsteadily and leaning against the back of the couch. “Yes...yes...I think I will be.”

She watched him close his eyes to steady himself; to clear whatever dream had startled him so badly from his mind. She knew he wasn’t going to tell her the details. He never did. She had long since stopped asking. They had grown to be open and direct with each other about a lot, mostly because it made their partnership work better, but also because they were friends. Or at least she thought. But where his night terrors were concerned, he stayed mum. Abbie eventually grew to accept it.

She couldn’t go into his dreams and protect him. Groceries, driving lessons, monster slaying, and the occasional cheering up with Netflix she could do...but not ending his nightmares. His dreams were his territory and only he could navigate his way to a place where they wouldn’t haunt him so fervently. All she could do was be there when he woke up so he knew that he wasn’t alone. She had hoped that it had helped. Apparently not.

He took a deep breath and his gaze fell on her again. He stared at her now, and even though she told herself that he was still thinking of his dream, she was suddenly very aware that she wasn’t wearing anything but a sleeping shirt and some panties. He was more than just looking at her. She could _feel_ the heat of his gaze tracing her limbs from her toes to the top of her head. The room seemed really small all of a sudden.

A thick pause fell over them, until he finally broke the silence.

“Leftenant...whatever disagreements we come to…whatever hardships we face...I don’t think I could bear to lose you.” He said very softly, but gravely.

She was taken aback by the gravity in his voice, and it made her recall her restless fantasies about him from last night, but humor was her first line of defense.

“Is that the dream talking or are you just happy to see me?” She muttered with a small laugh, her delivery sounding unsure even to her ears.

He didn’t react. Abbie swallowed and shifted on her feet under his gaze. She really wanted to go put on some pants. Then she remembered. “Shit! What time is it?”

She darted around him, eager to get away from those crystal blue tractor beams of his, and eyed the clock on the cable box next to the TV. It was only ten past seven in the morning. She still had time to shower, dress, have some coffee, and be down at the station for her meeting with Reyes at nine.

She turned around, huffing out a breath that blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “Hey. I gotta hop in the shower but...are you good?”

Ichabod had stood up from the couch and turned around; he had followed her with his eyes. Crap, the way he looked at her. His eyes were always probing. Assessing. Trying to figure her out. All the time. Even when he was joking. And now...she felt too undressed and too groggy from a long night to compose herself under his gaze. But a split second later, he nodded quickly, and the spell was broken. “Please, I do not wish for you to miss your meeting with the Captain. I’m good.”

“Pinky swear?”

Crane smiled faintly. “‘Pinky swear’, Leftenant. Go; take your shower. It’s nothing a little coffee won’t remedy.”

“You read my mind.”

“I shall prepare some for us, then. Go.” He walked toward her on steady legs when she stared at him suspiciously. He had gained some of his color back, and his eyes were clear; focused on the here and now. Focused on _her_. _Oh, Jesus._ He had her locked in those tractor beams again.

“Please. I’m _fine_.”

She needed to stop hovering. “Okay...see you in a minute, then.”

She reached out with her pinky, and he hooked his with hers. Tightly. They lingered this way for some seconds that seemed to drag out indefinitely as Abbie felt anticipation grip her. She could feel his body heat. He stood staring down at her; his lashes dropped low, his lips flushed. He was so tall, blocking out the pale, early morning sunlight shining in from the kitchen windows. His chest rose and fell softly, silently. She really took in the fact that he was shirtless now. The jagged scar that marked his first encounter with the Horseman of Death cruelly interrupted the dirty blond scruff peppering his chest. Despite the lingering paleness from the shock of his dream, his arms looked so tempting. Strong. Meant only for her. His pajama trousers hung low, barely clinging to his slender, yet very well toned hips.

Somewhere over the months, he had stopped becoming so flustered around her when one of them was less than fully dressed. When had that happened...?

She had such an overpowering urge for him to pull her into an embrace. She felt the ghost of his warm arms encircling her and wanted nothing more than for it to happen. But that was just her own stupid body still betraying her. Last night’s drunken horniness lingering, she told herself, knowing that if she pushed her luck he probably _would_ get flustered.

 _Hovering, Abbie. You’re doing it again._ She let go first.

By the time she made it back into the bedroom and closed the door for some privacy, she knew she was really closing it to put some distance between her own sparsely clad body and his. To stop herself from feeling compelled to linger near him, to touch him, to comfort him, to...what? Jump him?

Yep. That’s exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to jump into his arms and wrap her legs around him and feel him _grip her ass_ in those exquisite hands of his.

Why did he say that kind of shit to her? _Look_ at her that way? He made such a point of telling her how much he valued her as a _friend_ , and then he turned around and said shit like “To give you pleasure,” and “I don’t think I could bear to lose you…” with that _voice_. He practically made her panties wet. If he weren’t so honorable, and so... _Crane_...she would suspect he was torturing her on purpose.

 _Ugh, listen to yourself,_ she chided herself as she leaned against the door, gun hanging loosely at her side, pussy throbbing, eyes shut tight. _The man just had a nightmare, probably about his dead wife, and you’re ready to jump his bones._

She heard him rummaging around in the kitchen, starting the coffee for them. She knew how much he loved making coffee with the French press she bought him on a whim at the Costco a few months back. She knew he loved it more now to help work out his latest fixation, puzzle, or a blind spot in a case. He was always brimming with some theory of his about one thing or another by the time they were ready to drink it. She could handle that Crane. She was safe with that Crane.

She decided to shower quickly and get back in there, normal Abbie his _Friend_ and _Fellow Witness_. That’s what he needed. Not confused, horny Abbie with a bunch of indecent thoughts she couldn’t shake off.

_Okay. You’re gonna give yourself fifteen minutes to get this shit out of your system and get your ass back in the game, Abigail…_

Abbie pushed herself off of the door and replaced Corbin’s gun, making sure the safety was on. She grabbed her giant, black rucksack with all her spare clothes and toiletries for when she spent the night here. As she opened it and took a look inside to see what she had to put on, she first realized that, dang, she kept a lot of shit here. Between working, hunting Henry’s allies, and taking care of Crane, she spent so much time away from her apartment that she’d almost forgotten what it looked like.

The second thing she noticed was that Crane had washed and folded her clothes and arranged them neatly inside for her. A few days ago, she remembered this duffle being a piled up mess of clean and dirty garments stuffed hastily inside. Now, socks were with socks, V-necks with V-necks, tanks with tanks, a couple of pairs of jeans...even her panties were economically folded and neatly tucked underneath it all. An attempt to preserve her ‘propriety’ (and his) by hiding them from view and pretending that some fairy had done this. Damn, he was adorable. Confusing. But adorable. Ha—and judging by his reaction to being called cute _,_ there was no way in hell she would be mentioning this.

Also, this would probably have to stop. Giving him his independence meant not staying here four nights a week, with practically a dresser-full of clothes stored in his bedroom.

As she waited for the hot water to reach the temperature she liked, Abbie couldn’t help remembering the lines of his arms...the large, jagged scar on his chest...his hair, tousled from a restless sleep, hanging in his face...his forceful stride towards her as she entered the living room...the deep concern etched all over his face and in his fucking amazing eyes.

_Stop. It._

She undressed and stepped under the deliciously hot spray, willing it to wash away her thoughts. It didn’t, of course. The hot water made it worse, if anything. After a few futile minutes of trying not to think about Crane, she finally gave up and just let the thoughts come.

Abbie closed her eyes and let her hands roam over her body, and in her mind’s eye Crane was stepping in behind her. Silent and tall and strong, exhaling into her hair. She felt her thighs quiver as she imagined that her hands were his, caressing her, gripping her flesh, one hand snaking its way down her belly to her now _really_ throbbing sex.

 _“Open your legs, Miss Mills...”_ she imagined him commanding huskily, and she did. She pictured the stern gaze from the Crane of the past, and the long hair of her present Crane. Damn. Sexy.

She imagined assisting his long, nimble fingers as they cupped her sex. Guiding him as he slid one into her folds, gently at first. Then she imagined herself leaning into him; feeling his breath hot on her neck; his long, thick, hard erection pressing into the small of her back, just above that sweet spot at the top of her ass. _Ugh…shit, she had it bad_. And she thrust her fingers more forcefully inside, imagining that they were his; sliding in and out, circling around her swollen clit with the perfect amount of pressure, causing her to moan softly. Over and over again. Slow and firm and focused on a singular outcome. She crushed her eyes shut, letting herself fall into fantasy under the hot water.

_“That’s it...come for me...Abbie...please…”_

Abbie pleasured herself with Crane swirling all around her brain until she climaxed hard. “Fuck!” She panted, slapping one hand against the wet wall to steady herself as she came down from her orgasm.

When it was over, she was disappointed to find that it hadn’t really been enough. It hadn’t been the real thing. And the guilt was back again.

Irritated instead of satisfied, she finished washing and got out, walking over to the steamy mirror to wipe it down and stare at herself disdainfully. “Well, it’s official. You’ve got a problem.” She muttered as she practically stabbed her toothbrush with paste and jabbed it irritably into her mouth.

And that problem’s name was Ichabod freakin’ Crane.

 

* * *

 

(Ichabod.)

 

The terror he felt at the sight of Katrina’s spirit in his dream was nothing compared to the overwhelming dread that greeted him when he awoke, bellowing.

Abbie. His mind was filled with Abbie. And Katrina. Those eyes. The hatred in them. Abbie! Where was Abbie?

“LEFTENANT!” He jumped to his feet and stumbled toward the bedroom, nearly knocking into the coffee table in front of the couch, blind with anxiety. “ _ABBIE!_ ”

“Crane!” She appeared, small and swift, alive and well, and wielding a gun. He stormed towards her. He couldn’t explain it. He had felt, with stabbing certainty, that her life was in danger. He had to stop himself from grabbing her and pulling her toward him, cupping her face in his hands and pressing his forehead to hers. The urge was so strong it created a thick knot of longing in his throat, but he had to swallow it down.

Ah, when he saw her, relief washed over him, and it was so palpable, he felt as if it would rent his heart in two. He took in every detail of her. She looked just as she had in his dream. Small, soft, swallowed by that shirt, hair like silken black feathers, the fog of slumber still glistening in her large, round eyes.

Mercy, she was so beautiful. He had wanted, so badly, to hold her just now; to feel her and smell her. To make sure that she was alive, and this was real. The dream was...fresh. Every detail of it. How voluptuous she felt in his hands. Her warmth, her deep moans, her velvet lips. She lingered while they pinky swore, and he was _sorely_ tempted. Did she notice? Did it matter?

He held himself in check. For he knew that if he moved to satisfy his deep longing for physical contact with her that he may not be able to keep his hands from feeling for more and more purchase; from seeking out more of the places on her smooth, curvaceous body that they’d longed to explore for longer than he cared to admit.

Now, as he watched her close the bedroom door on him, he tried to force himself to think clearly.

Because he also, quite lucidly, remembered those terrifying eyes, wreathed in floating, fiery red hair. And the hatred in them. The dread that welled within him at the sight still tingled in his chest.

Should he confide these things to Abbie? Ichabod retrieved last night’s shirt, put it on, rolled up the sleeves, and made his way to the kitchen to start their coffee, deep in thought. Should he tell her what he felt? What he dreamed?

No. He could not tell her about the entire dream. He had no intention of confessing himself to her in such a manner. When the day came to confess himself--and if his deplorable behavior last night held any indication, it would soon--he would do it _properly_. For now, he felt he should tell her _something_.

Ichabod put the water on to boil, and fetched the coffee from the ‘freezer’. He took a moment to appreciate that Abbie insisted on keeping it there, to keep it fresh far longer. And that this machine cooled and preserved all manner of perishable items independently and indefinitely, as apposed to the ice blocks that were a nuisance to create and replace in the cooler sheds of his time. One of the ‘perks’ of the twenty-first century, she often said to him about these kinds of marvels.

As he waited for the water, he got out two mugs and scooped the coffee into the press. This process calmed him; made him focus. Helped him think.

Ichabod began searching his mind; through countless memories of facts, people, books he’d read, conversations he’d had, all perfectly preserved for almost his entire life. He’d been overwhelmed by his ability when he was a child. He couldn’t understand why no one else could remember the way he could. It frustrated and, truth be told, frightened him at times. But his father, though he was an unyielding man who expected great things from Ichabod without leniency, taught him to focus it and wield it confidently. Now, he counted it as one of his foremost strengths, and he relied on it unconditionally.

There was something about dreams...symbols. Warnings? Flames. Green, serpent’s eyes. A serpent…snakes held both practical and symbolic meaning amongst witch kind. They were used to cast spells and as avatars to…enact curses. His heart gave a thump as the kettle began to sing. That terrible dread was upon him again.

There must be some connection to the last sight of his dream, the feeling it gave him, and the image of serpent’s eyes that was nagging at his mind’s eye as he went through the motions of preparing their coffee. But why now? And why in a dream about Katrina?

Ichabod’s jaw clenched; he glared at the countertop, crestfallen, as he thought: _it **began** as a dream about Abbie…one that felt so real. _ He prevented himself from lingering on his disappointment that it hadn’t been.

Instead, he called to his memory a series of books in the archives that Jenny had brought from the county library (they were due back, come to think of it). They were tales of the paranormal, urban legends from all over the world, ‘things that go bump in the night’, and dreams.

They intrigued him because they appeared not to be intended for adults, which gave the histories they examined a fanciful tone. Fairy tales though they may be, given the nature of their work, he understood why she would bring them to the archives. He had only skimmed the one about dreams, but he had a mind now to go and revisit it. He hoped she had not returned them.

The most troubling thing was that he had nothing to go on but a gut feeling. He had dreamt of Katrina several times since her tragic death. These were no longer vehicles that transported him to visit her in Purgatory. These were most definitely products of his own grief and guilt. Usually of the moment it happened. Over and over again of her lifeless vessel shedding its last mortal coil, evaporating to nothing but ash and cinder before his eyes. Or of the moment in which she was stripping the life from Abbie, hatred in her eyes and tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.

Last night’s dream was most assuredly an exception to that trend. This had been rather more specific, in a way he hadn’t expected. Cruel in the way it taunted him with a passionate fantasy of Abbie before revealing its true nature. And that feeling of dread only overcame him when he woke; the feeling that Abbie was in danger. It didn’t come from the memory of her near-death at the hands of his late wife. It came with the death rattle Katrina’s imagined spirit released as those terrifying eyes stared him down into a chilly, dark abyss. It was too visceral to ignore.

The questions remained, what were they to _do_ about a gut feeling? And what was he to tell Abbie?

He had chosen not to burden her with his nightmares until now. She carried so much. She had spent many nights calming him, many days making sure his mind was occupied and that he never forgot his purpose. She gave so much of herself, he couldn’t bear to make her feel responsible for dealing with the demons in his own mind as well. No. That would not make him a _man_ , a mantra he had so foolishly--drunkenly--accosted her with last night. That would make him a sheep in a man’s clothing.

He lapsed for a moment into dark thoughts about his behavior last night. He’d been so relieved to have a moment’s peace; so beset with attraction to her that he’d quite forgotten himself. Allowed his frustration to get the better of him. Lord, the things he’d said. Ichabod frowned, pausing as he pushed the strainer down into the press. He remembered how trapped by his gaze she’d been when he told her that he wanted to give her pleasure. The perfect memory of it made his long-unsatisfied manhood ache, even now. He went about the motions of making their coffee, but his mind was on Abbie. He could no longer ignore the very powerful feeling that he was drowning in desire for the young Lieutenant. He felt her absence when she wasn’t in the room, and whenever she was, he was as drawn to her as to a torchlight in the unforgiving dark.

He was alarmed by his dream but he was also plagued with guilt over his crass behavior. He determined to himself now that he would make amends by behaving with absolute self-control from this moment forward. Besides…he had far more sinister matters to deal with now.

For he could not shake the sinking feeling that _something_ —something that was, at the moment, elusive and opaque—intended to snuff out her light.

But before he could work out what exactly he ought to tell her, he had finished their coffee and he could smell her approaching by the pleasantly familiar scent of coconut oil from her ‘leave-in conditioner’. She had explained to him that it made her hair look and smell the way it did, and he loved to catch the scent in the mornings whenever she was near. Hers was a scent that was sweet, and also somehow spicy, but natural. Like cinnamon or ginger or coconut, but all very distinctly _Abbie_. It didn’t assault his olfactory senses the way that Star woman’s had. It soothed him. Lulled him. Made him crave it; comfort in it.  Something so simple as her natural smell had become an indulgence to him. He was in trouble, of that much he was certain.

He could not lose her. He _would_ not. He had to tell her. They had to make sure it was nothing. Or discover that it was something and defeat it together. For now, he set aside the fact that he would also not be able to restrain his ever-deepening affection for her for much longer, either. He didn’t know when, but sooner or later he would have to give up pretending that he was not in love with her. It felt like walking in shoes that belonged to another man; he longed to stop suppressing his instincts; to stop muzzling himself in order to conceal the fact that Abigail Mills was as precious to him as his own life.

They crept toward him like vines in the dark, his desire and his dread. But to what end?

 

* * *

 

(Abbie.)

 

When she had dressed and dried her hair, she found him at the kitchen table, having put on his shirt from last night, pouring them two cups of steaming coffee.

“‘Light and sweet’ for you, Leftenant.” He said, not looking up at her as he retrieved the milk from the fridge and the sugar from the cabinet near the sink. He didn’t have to announce it—he knew how she liked her coffee like he knew that she liked the raspberry doughnut holes the best. He still didn’t look at her as he prepared it for her.

She wondered if he was embarrassed about his outburst after the dream. Abbie paused, trying to figure how to handle this after their argument last night. She didn’t want to press him about his dream and she didn’t want to make him feel like she was hovering.

She adopted an air of nonchalance and came to meet him at the table. She stood on the opposite side from him, and he handed her a mug. This was their morning routine. Whenever she slept at the cabin (which, let’s face it, was _often_ these days), Crane would make them coffee and they’d stand or sit across from each other at the kitchen table, sipping and talking about their plans for the day. Sometimes they’d be headed to the archives to do research. Sometimes they’d be chasing down a lead. Sometimes she’d brief him on some case Reyes had her overseeing.

This was familiar, at least, if still a bit awkward because of...well because she’d just masturbated in the shower thinking of him. And he had told her the night before to give him his space.

“Do you know what the case is about?” He spoke up, his voice bringing her out of her thoughts. She focused on him and found him watching for her answer as if it was of grave importance. “From Captain Reyes?”

Abbie blew at the surface of her coffee, and he watched her still, his eyes taking on that assessing focus that made her stomach flutter. She shook her head, breaking their gaze to take a sip. “No, I haven’t heard anything over the wire. Must be something special. Maybe in another jurisdiction.”

“Another jurisdiction?” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes sharpening at the statement. Okay, that was interesting.

“Yeah. Sometimes the smaller counties need help with big cases. This must be one of those.”

“I see…”

It was Abbie’s turn to frown at him. He’d gone pensive again. She had no idea what about, but then she got a hunch. The hurt poked at her but she ignored it, remembering what she told herself she would do from this moment forward. Crane needed her to be supportive. Give him his space. So. _Here goes nothing._

“Sooo...maybe this is good? While I’m gone you can stretch out. See what you might wanna get into.”

Crane’s eyes refocused and angled down at hers, her words pulling him from his thoughts. “While you’re gone...” He said quietly. God, was he gonna make her reconfirm that he was right? _Big baby_ , she thought, but said:

“Yeah.” She lay her head from side to side, clutching her mug. “If it’s like I think, I might have to go to another town for a few days. Just to get a handle on the case, whatever it is. So you can, you know, flex your independence, like we talked about.”

“Oh.” He took a long sip of his black coffee. Abbie faltered. Wasn’t that what he wanted? She was feeling unsure all of a sudden, and his uncharacteristic aloofness wasn’t helping matters.

She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed at her forehead. She couldn’t tell if she was coming or going with him. She tried to chalk it up to him still being plagued by remnants of his dream, but truthfully she was feeling the prickly burn of insecurity starting to poke at her. “Hey. Are you still dreaming? You’ve never been so quiet.”

“Forgive me, Leftenant,” he spoke up, apparently noticing her confusion. “I’m...out of sorts this morning.”

Abbie smiled softly, despite herself. “It’s okay, Crane.”

“No.” Crane put his coffee down and lifted his gaze to meet hers fully now. “It’s not. I’m sorry, but I have something that I must tell you.”

Abbie’s heart stopped dead. Crane was looking at her so intensely, his damn tractor beams locking her in place and pulling her in. She had no idea what she expected to come out of his mouth, then he uttered:

“As you know, I had a...very disturbing dream. It took me quite by surprise, to say the least. But there’s more.”

Abbie tilted her head at him, concern flooding through her, replacing the momentary paralysis under his gaze. She couldn’t help asking: “Was it Katrina?”

Crane didn’t answer right away. His eyes were darker blue than usual and his brow was furrowed. At first, she chided herself for forgetting their ‘no asking questions about the nightmares’ rule. Then he nodded. “Yes. But this wasn’t like the others. When I woke I was overwhelmed with fear for _your_ life. And, forgive me, but I cannot help feeling that we should not be separated under any circumstances. Not after what I...”

“What you what?”

“ _I cannot explain it_.” He shook his head slowly, his lips pursed in frustration that he couldn’t explain himself properly. “I saw...something. I think it was a warning. About us. About you.”

Abbie felt a shiver run down her spine at his grave words. They stared at each other still more, both unsure how to proceed from there. Crane didn’t talk about his dreams. But he was now. It must have been a pretty bad one. Or he was right and this _was_ different, somehow. The last time he’d been this at a loss was when he’d had a vision of Moloch telling him he’d deliver Abbie’s soul to Purgatory.

There was a sharp knock on the door, jolting them both out of the moment.

Jenny came in through the unlocked door a second later (it was always unlocked when Crane was here, a habit Abbie had tried and failed to break him of). She was still wearing the clothes she had on the night before, but she looked positively aglow. _Awesome_...Abbie thought irritably. _Jenny gets laid (by Frank of all people) and I get ominous nightmares about Katrina._ Despite her annoyance, Abbie was kind of relieved that Jenny had broken the tension a bit. She had to gather her senses; she was sluggish to shake off all that drama from last night and the alarming start to the morning. She needed to spend a few more minutes with her coffee. She wanted to ask more about Crane’s dream, but Jenny’s bright mood momentarily distracted her. She had never seen her sister so...chipper.

“Hey, party people. What’d I miss?”

Abbie blinked incredulously at her sister’s cheerful greeting and frowned past her through the open door. “Why are you up so early? Where’s Frank?” _I thought you two had a booty call last night_ , she added with her eyes as she took another sip of her coffee.

“I brought your car back. Picked it up from Maybes.” Jenny used their nickname for the bar and smirked, ignoring Abbie’s last question. She tossed the car keys on the table, closing the door behind her. “You’re welcome. Hey, Crane.”

“Good morrow, Miss Jenny. You look...rested.”

Jenny beamed and stole his coffee. “Rested, huh? Sure, I’ll take it. Got any more coffee?”

More like his usual self, Crane rolled his eyes and dropped his hands pointedly from the air where his mug had once been. “Oh, by all means, _do_ help yourself.”

Jenny arched a playful eyebrow and muttered “Thanks,” as she took a sip.

Abbie shifted on her feet, following Crane with her eyes as he poured himself another cup. She didn’t know how to grill him about his dream. It was a touchy subject, and she could tell he was struggling with how much to tell her.

“So.” Jenny said in that _way_ she always did when she was about to make things awkward. Abbie gulped down her coffee and prayed that it wasn’t going to be what she feared.

Of course, it was.

“What’d you two kids get up to last night?” She grinned behind the pilfered mug. Abbie glared at her, but quickly arranged her face into cool nonchalance as Crane turned around to face them with fresh coffee in his hands. He frowned.

“‘Get up to?’” Jenny’s suggestive turn of phrase escaped him, of course. He took a breath and offered a flourish of his hand. “Oh. Well...we quarreled. Mostly.” He was now looking at Abbie.

“Of course you did.” Jenny muttered, looking a little more disappointed than Abbie felt she ought to be.

“And…” Crane took a deep breath and lowered his mug. “I had a dream. But it was no ordinary dream,” he added grimly. “It was a warning. The more I think on it, the surer I become.”

Jenny’s smirk faltered, her brows drawing closer together. “A warning? Of what, exactly?”

Crane raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth, but he faltered, looking unsure of how to explain.

“We don’t know, exactly,” Abbie answered for him. Jenny turned to regard her sister, her frown deepening as the mood in the room became serious again. “But Crane thinks it’s about me, or us, or something to do with one of us. Something bad.”

“And you know this becaaaause…?” Jenny was now exchanging looks between the both of them, resting her mug on the crook of her crossed arms.

Crane straightened up, sighing hard. He strode forward and put his coffee down, bringing his hands to his sides, fingers flexing. “In the dream, Katrina’s spirit appeared to me without warning,” his eyes flickered at Abbie and back to Jenny. “It taunted me at first, unseen. But when it showed itself…”

Both Mills sisters exchanged glances at the low baritone of Crane’s voice. His eyes were focused on the table as he recalled, with perfect detail she knew, what he’d seen in a dream that had sent him shouting Abbie’s name in a panic.

“The scene thereafter was terrifying, I assure you, but what impressed on me most was the sight of green eyes, wreathed by fiery red hair. Or, the symbol of a serpent, wreathed in flame, something I’ve seen before. Though I cannot be certain until I’ve--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—a ‘ _serpent_ , _wreathed in flame’_? How did we go from Katrina to snakes?” Jenny scoffed. “Holy shit, Crane, don’t leave us hanging here.”

“I think he’s serious, Jenny.” Abbie interjected quietly. Crane looked relieved at her verbal support.

“Okay. Sorry.” Jenny cleared her throat and set her coffee down too. “If you say there’s something there, then there’s something there. So what’s our plan?”

Abbie set her coffee down as well, putting her hands on her hips. “Crane? Your dream. Your call. We can get to the bottom of this. After what happened with The Sandman and then Mama...we know dreams are nothin’ to mess with.” She nodded at him, drawing herself up to her full height, to reaffirm her support. “If you think this is the same thing, then--”

He shook his head, crossing his arms and raising his thumb to his bottom lip.  “No, Leftenant, I’m afraid there is our ‘fly in the ointment’. I’m not entirely convinced this _is_ the same. But I would like to find out. If this is Katrina…”

They all looked at each other, remembering the mess Katrina had made before her death. They’d all been living with the certainty—the _hope_ , Abbie admitted to herself—that she was gone for good. However they all dealt with that fact, they all still considered the chapter closed, especially after they’d wiped out the last known members of Henry’s network. But they still had very little to go on. They had all done this enough times to know that they needed to start out small, check their sources, and stay vigilant.

“Right. So, dreams.” Jenny finally broke the silence. She gestured slowly, making a face. “And...serpents wreathed in flame. We’ll start there?”

“Exactly my thought.” Crane agreed. “We should consult the Grand Grimoir—I suspect there’s more we can learn there. You haven’t returned the collection of urban legends you borrowed from the library a fortnight ago, I presume?”

“Oh, shoot. Thanks for reminding me.” Jenny winced, attempting to look contrite. Obviously, he presumed right.

“Good. As always, your innate instinct to flout authority proves most useful, Miss Jenny. I saw an account of dreams there that might shed more light.”

“Okay. Cool. Divide and conquer. And by the way: My ‘instinct to flout authority’ gets us out of pretty deep shit on a regular basis, Icky.”

He rolled his eyes and made a noise of exasperation, his stiffness from earlier seeming to thaw. “Please, I’ve asked you to desist with that bludgeoning of my given name. And, that is exactly what I just said, wrapped in a cocoon of nonsense.”

“To-may-toe, to-mah-toe.” She winked at him.

“Okay, corners.” Abbie called, lifting her hands at them. “I gotta be at the station in thirty minutes. Why don’t you guys check out that serpent thing, I’ll catch up with you at the archives after?”

“What shall we tell the Captain?”

Abbie frowned at his words. “Tell the Captain…?”

He moved closer to her, a forbidding expression resting on his handsome features. “If she tries to send you away on assignment.” He said matter-of-factly, as if they’d reached some sort of agreement that she’d forgotten.

Abbie gave him the time out signal.

“We don’t know what she has for me. Add to that, we don’t even know what _we_ have, so let’s not put anybody on house arrest just yet, okay?”

She wanted to add that it was her _job_ and she could only do so much ducking and dodging her responsibilities and _he wanted his space anyway_ and she could take care of herself, and boy wasn’t he eager to lock her in the tower and throw away the key? But she didn’t. She wondered if he could read it all in her expression. He certainly looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. This was the problem with trying to be the Abbie he needed all the time. He wanted his space; he wanted to keep her from doing her job because he saw some kind of warning sign in a dream; he wanted to be his own man; he wanted to clock her every move. She felt about ready to put some distance between herself and this infuriating man, actually looking forward to losing herself in real, honest-to-goodness police work for a little while.

Abbie shifted to cop mode.

“Let’s get hard proof first. I got your back, but I gotta do my job. You got a hunch. Let’s work it. I’ll meet you in the archives. Okay?”

She looked into his eyes, trying to stand her ground. Trying to seem supportive. Trying to seem resolute. Trying not to seem totally anchored to his moods and desires, like she knew she was.

“As you wish.” Crane nodded stiffly and gestured to the bedroom. “I should…”

He left them to get dressed and Abbie waited until he’d closed the bedroom door before turning to face what she knew would be a hurricane of questions from Jenny. She was playing it cool right now, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. _And three, two, one…_

“Okaaay. What was _that_ all about? And please tell me you did more than ‘quarrel’ last night. Like, I’m kind of hoping that’s just eighteenth century talk for getting busy.”

Abbie’s face twitched. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Jenny?”

Jenny gaped at her. “Abbie. Come on. The way you two were dry-humping each other with your eyes last night (and _just now_ for that matter), I thought at _least_ he’d give you a little h--!”

“ _Keep your voice down!_ ” Abbie hissed.

Jenny looked at Abbie in disbelief. Then she whispered: “Nothing? You didn’t even _kiss?_ Shit, I lost fifty bucks...”

Abbie tilted her head at her sister. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, don’t try to deny it.” Jenny casually sidestepped her little bomb about _making a bet on Crane and Abbie hooking up_ as she stepped towards Abbie, her sharp eyes narrowed knowingly. Abbie blinked, feeling caught all of a sudden. Shit. She should have known this was coming. Jenny sighed, gripping Abbie gently by the shoulders. “Look, I’m being silly, but Abbie, I see you.”

“What?” She was taken aback.

 _Look at me, Abbie. **See me.** _ She got a heat-flash image of Crane, red lights illuminating his gorgeous face as he glared at her imploringly in the back seat of that cab. She shook it off.

Jenny nodded still more knowingly. “Yeah. I see you both. You’ve always been in sync somehow, even when you first got caught up in all this, but this is different. You can’t keep your eyes off each other. Where you go, he goes. You spend practically every night here. You take care of each other like you’re an old married couple. You let him massage your feet, for God’s sake.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe I told you that!” Abbie crushed her eyes shut, embarrassed and simultaneously annoyed.

“You can deny it all you want, big sis, but I know you despite what you might think. You don’t date because you aren’t interested. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you got jealous of that stripper chick last night.”

“Okay, not having this conversation.” Abbie shrugged Jenny off and went to retrieve her keys, badge, and gun. She felt flushed, and defensive. She turned on her heel. “You know, you are _so one to talk_ , after you and Frank? In my apartment? Did you use my bed?’

Jenny balked. “No! Jesus, Abbie, what do you take me for?”

Abbie huffed a sigh, then made a face. “Ew, my sofabed?”

“I think we broke it a little.” Jenny offered her that same cringy-contrite look that she’d given Crane earlier about the library books.

Abbie threw her hands up. “And _she’s_ taking bets on _me_...”

“Calm down, Martha Stewart. I’m joking, it wasn’t that crazy.” Abbie watched her sister smile softly, a warm look spreading over her face. Something Abbie rarely saw. “I mean, it was _damn_ _good_. But then we actually talked afterward. I think I really liked it. I _know_ he did. It was different for me, but I liked not being the cigarette and jet kinda girl for a change.”

“Even though you’re a pain in the ass, I’m actually happy for you, okay?” Abbie said finally. “Just be careful. Baggage doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“You ain’t wrong there.” Jenny paused, turning to make sure Crane was still doing his thing before returning to Abbie with an expression that read _‘nice try’._ “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Don’t change the subject—I know you’ve got your impenetrable fortress up because you and Crane have some pretty big baggage, too. But just do me a favor? Think about it, okay?”

Abbie bristled, her guard shooting up again, as if conjured by her sister’s words. “Think about _what_ , Jenny?”

“About how we both know Crane has real feelings for you.”

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to react. She felt completely taken off guard. She swallowed.

“Ever since Katrina died...he looks at you differently. Maybe you can’t see it. Maybe you don’t want to. But for the rest of us it’s pretty obvious. Question is...what are you gonna do about it?”

“Are you high on morning after fumes or something?”

“Nope.”

“Jenny, we _argued the entire way here_.” Abbie snapped. “He wants to live his life. He wants his space. He thinks I baby him. Hell, maybe I do--I can’t tell anymore.”

“I don’t believe that.” Jenny rolled her eyes and lowered her voice even more. “The dude just had a bad dream and is clearly freaked out by some vague (at best) threat of losing you. He almost just _forbade_ you to go in to work today because of it. Maybe he’s not looking for the kinda freedom you think he is. The dude is bursting at the seams, trying not to scare you off, Abbie. _Maybe…_ ” she paused for emphasis, treading carefully. “Maybe you should tell him how _you_ feel.”

“How _I_ feel?” The knowing gleam in her little sister’s eyes was really getting on her nerves. Mostly because she knew she couldn’t hide from Jenny. That had been the worst part of their estrangement over the years. Jenny knew Abbie inside and out. She never let Abbie get away with bullshit. Not about that day in the woods. Not about her guilt. Not about Mama. And not about this.

“It’s okay to admit that you like him, too. Maybe even love him a little bit?”

Abbie took in a sharp breath, prepared to unleash a million reasons why Jenny was wrong--had to be wrong--her instinct to protect herself on high alert. But her iPhone buzzed in her back pocket, saving her.  She licked her lips, tearing her eyes away from her sister’s to look at the view screen. It was Reyes.

_‘If you can report right now, make it happen. Fill you in when you get here.’_

“Shit, Reyes is calling me in early. Something must be wrong. Tell Crane I’ll see you guys there.” Avoiding Jenny’s gaze, Abbie turned her back to the room to secure her badge and gun to her belt. She ran nervous hands through her hair and reached for her jacket before opening the door.

“To be continued?” Jenny called after her hopefully.

“ _I gotta go_ , Jenny...” She left Jenny standing in the middle of the kitchen without another word.

 

* * *

 

(Jenny.)

 

_Shit. Way to poke the gorilla in the room, Mills._

Jenny stood between the kitchen and living room, watching as her sister strode determinedly towards her SUV through the open door until she disappeared from view. She frowned at the foliage lining the road as she listened to the engine starting and the sound of leaves and dirt crunching under the truck’s tires.

She watched as the car backed down the driveway, her arms crossed, her mind buzzing with the argument they’d just had, and all the points she wanted to make about this ridiculous game of cat and mouse Abbie was playing with Crane. That was one of the things she’d talked about with Frank last night. They’d both come to the conclusion—after a couple rounds of pretty earth-shattering sex, a lot of water and a lot of quiet talking—that fighting this war wasn’t worth it if they weren’t fighting it for the people they cared about. Frank fought for his family. Jenny fought for hers. Ichabod Crane fought for Abbie; they needed each other. They’d all be a lot better off if both of them were finally honest about how much they cared for each other. Jenny knew better than anyone how secrets destroyed relationships, especially when letting go of them could make those relationships stronger than ever.

As for Frank and Jennie, they both agreed to be honest about what they wanted, and that included if and when either of them wanted more.

The SUV disappeared from view around a curve in the tree-lined path that led to the secluded road into town. They’d take Corbin’s old truck to the station when Crane was finally done primping.

Jenny smirked, an idea forming in her head as she walked towards the door to close it. So maybe _she_ couldn’t get through Abbie’s fortress of self-preservation, but maybe _Crane_ could. Maybe she could convince him more easily to drop the act and make the first move.

When she reached the door, already planning her attack, she felt a chill run through her out of nowhere, like she’d walked into a really cold patch of air. She paused, her hand on the knob. She peered out into the yard, and the woods beyond, feeling heavy stillness overcome her. She had the feeling that she was being watched. It was getting steadily stronger as she leaned closer to see more of the yard. So did the chill she felt, crawling up her back toward her neck. Cautiously, she stepped over the threshold onto the porch, her eyes hunting the landscape for signs of movement. The pale morning sun broke through the clouds every now and then, illuminating parts of the woods.

She stood absolutely still, her senses on alert. She thought she heard a twig or branch cracking loudly to her right, and her eyes darted that way. She got a flash of red; a glimpse of hair disappearing into the maze of trees. The sight shocked her so badly that she jumped, wishing she had a gun handy.

_Did I just see…?_

It couldn’t have been Katrina. No way. Jenny swallowed hard and stared into the trees, hoping more sunlight would break through to give her more sight. Her heart was starting to pound.

“Miss Jenny? Where is—?”

“CRANE! Shit!” Jenny nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his questioning voice. She spun around to see him standing there, having showered and gotten fully dressed. He raised his hands and stepped back, his eyes darting from hers to the trees beyond. “You scared the crap out of me!” Jenny breathed hard, smiling awkwardly as she tried to calm her rapidly thumping heart.

“My apologies, announcing myself seemed the safer alternative. But you seemed…preoccupied. You look pale. What’s the matter?”

“I thought I saw…” Jenny trailed off, second-guessing herself, turning to look out into the yard again. Crane joined her on the porch, his eyes following hers, his expression serious.

“What did you see, Jenny?”

Jenny shook her head slowly, still doubting herself. The cold air was gone. The birds were chirping again. The woods didn’t seem so bleak and silent anymore. “I don’t know. Someone with red hair, maybe, but it was just for a second.”

They both exchanged looks before turning out again, and they stood still on the porch, watching. Jenny was starting to feel silly when she heard an odd nose to her left.

She narrowed her eyes past Crane at the floor of the porch. There she saw, to her shock and utter alarm, a large black snake rearing up on its belly, almost to the height of Crane’s chest. He noticed her staring in rigid shock and followed her eyes. “Oh!” He stepped back immediately, his arm shooting out to usher her behind him.

“What the hell does it want, Crane?” She whispered into his ear, swallowing hard. He didn’t answer. It was just hovering there, staring at them; looking poised to strike; it’s forked tongue darting out every few seconds. The thing’s eyes were as green as emeralds, the sunlight bounced off of them spectacularly. It was an eerie sight.

Then, without warning, it went up in flames and disappeared in a puff of smoking cinder.

“Where is the Leftenant?” Crane uttered through clenched teeth, his eyes fixed on the spot of burnt porch where the creepy snake had just been. Jenny stared at it too, befuddled and shaken.

“Got a text from Reyes…went ahead of us. What is it?”

He had walked toward it, leaning over to examine it. He knelt, and reached out to brush his fingers across it, clearing some of the soot away ( _snake residue, yuck,_ Jenny thought). What was left was a brand of sorts, though it wasn’t a symbol. It was some sort of message. Jenny knelt with him, and examined the words that had been singed into the wood. It was a language Jenny didn’t recognize, but Crane had gone deadly silent. His swimming blue eyes rose to meet hers, and she was hammered with the dread in them. When he spoke next, she knew by his voice that he could read the words, and that it was bad.

“I suggest we follow. With haste.”

 

Okay. So this was actually serious. _Note to self: don’t make fun of Crane’s nightmares…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next installment, Ichabod and Abbie are torn asunder. Can they find out what's going on and stop it before something terrible rips them apart for good?


	3. in the blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The surest test for Crane will be the threat of harm to Abbie, without knowing when or where or how it would strike.

 

> _those whom god hath joined together_
> 
> _let no man put asunder_
> 
> _-Mark 10:9_

 

  

* * *

 

(Abbie.)

 

Abbie drove with both hands gripping the wheel, jaw clenched.

She had no idea what was going on with Crane, but there was no way she was going to do what Jenny suggested and throw herself at him just after she’d agreed to give him his space. Sure she was attracted to him, consumed with thoughts of him lately, but she was dealing with that. Sure, she missed him when he wasn’t around. Sure, she couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. But that didn’t mean he felt the same way.

Did it? God, the thought…the _possibility_ …simultaneously excited and terrified her. She didn’t know how to process. The part of her that wouldn’t let her mind go there warred with the part of her that allowed herself to hope. In the past, hope always seemed to let her down. But lately…the hope she felt of seeing Crane again when she was in Purgatory, the hope within her that ‘Past Crane’ would believe her and help her find a way out of the mess she’d made in 1781, the hope that her idea to hunt Henry’s network would bring him out of his depression…that hope had all panned out.

Hope was also a damned distraction. One she really didn’t need right now. But of course, she couldn’t fight off her curiosity. Despite herself, she couldn’t help thinking back through the days and nights they’d spent together over the last six months as she drove, trying to find something she’d missed (or _dismissed_ , more like, if she were being honest with herself) that would confirm Jenny’s claim.

Though he put on a brave face, he was silent a lot for those first couple of weeks. Deep in thought, she’d guessed. Mourning. He only spoke when absolutely necessary. He went to visit Katrina’s empty grave almost every day. And he barely slept at first. She’d come to the cabin to check on him after a late shift and he’d still be awake at three or four in the morning, reading, researching online, pacing, staring into space. That went on for a while, until she couldn’t take it anymore and forced him one night to close his books and go to bed. That’s when the bad dreams started. She remembered another night in particular after that. They’d been watching ‘Doctor Who’ on Netflix, and he massaged her feet while she picked at a pint of Cherry Garcia. He would scoff or grunt at the show for one reason or another (although she’d bet a million bucks that he was impressed by The Doctor character), absentmindedly rubbing her toenails with the pads of his fingers or working on her arches. But unlike his usual self, he said very little, even then. He was brooding.

At the time, she’d only been grateful for the peace and quiet, enjoying his hands on her skin, indulging herself. Simultaneously feeling guilty because she knew that she got a great deal more pleasure out of his administrations than she’d ever admit. She secretly loved the feel of his nimble, cool hands on her skin. He touched her small feet like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She remembered falling asleep on the couch, and he must’ve covered her up, tossed the empty ice cream container, and gone to bed. The next thing she knew, he was shouting from the bedroom, moaning or crying or both. He kept saying “Forgive me, forgive me…” and “I love her, God forgive me…!” until she had to shake him to wake him up. To her surprise, he’d seized hold of her and pulled her bodily into the bed, undulating himself underneath her and encircling her tightly with his long arms until he fell back asleep.

Thinking back on it, she had just assumed that he didn’t know whom he was holding; or that he’d realized what he’d done (and to whom) later and was so embarrassed that he never brought it up again. It was the only time he did it. But now…with Jenny’s words echoing in her head…she also remembered that he’d whispered “I love you…please forgive me…I’m sorry…” as he held her close to him. His voice had been thick with the tears he’d apparently shed, and it sounded so…raw. At the time, she’d only stroked his arm and waited until she could carefully disentangle herself from him.

It was hard. She’d ‘waited’ a long time, even after he’d fallen back to sleep, knowing she should get up but not wanting to. She felt so safe and _needed_ in his long arms; his tight embrace. There was some form of comfort in this position that Abbie knew she had secretly craved, with all her being, for a long, long time. She had sought it out in older boyfriends as a teenager, but of course she only got herself in trouble. She had sought it out in Corbin, but he could only provide so much as her mentor and friend. She had sought it out in other men who ended up being too much for her or too little; too complicated or too weak or too…something. She ran a lot. She ran from Luke.

_“But love? Courtship? Intimacy? You’d rather embrace the danger we face every moment of this war than open yourself—or your heart—to another.”_

Crane knew her so well. It was scary how well he knew her. And he fit. Curved around her perfectly. Protectively.

That night, his long, heavy body rose and fell against hers with the force of his deep breathing and she felt _at home_. She had thought that he’d been talking to Katrina, still somehow experiencing echoes of his dream. But she had also felt her heart jerk to life with his words _…I love you._ The words ping-ponged through her whole body, filling her from top to bottom, and she had wanted so badly to whisper back _I love you, too, Crane._ She warred with herself for almost fifteen minutes as he slept, holding her tightly against him, both arms wrapped securely around her waist, his face in her hair. _Get up, get up, get up, Mills!_ Finally, carefully, she slid out of his embrace inch by inch, until she was in the cold dark again, away from his warmth.

She’d been shaking slightly when she finally made it back to the couch. Telling herself over and over again that he had been dreaming of Katrina and she was wrong for lingering in his arms like she had a right to be there. Like she belonged there. No matter how damned good it felt. She wasn’t his wife. His wife was dead. Because of her. She was just his friend. And she would be a shitty one if she were selfish enough to seek out anything more from him than platonic affection.

She would spend the next five and a half months running away from that scary ass feeling of yearning…of hope.

That’s when she’d decided that they both needed a distraction. That’s when she had determined to start hunting for leads on Henry’s network; to force Crane to come back to the land of the living; to keep herself from hoping.

Now, Jenny seemed to think that Crane had been doing the same thing. Hoping. And hiding it.

She was definitely in trouble. All over again. _Damn it, Jenny. Just because you got laid, that doesn’t mean you get to go around sprinkling your magic love dust all over everything in your path._ This was such a damned mess. One Abbie was too confused and exhausted to sort out right this moment.

The young lieutenant forced herself to focus on the present, shaking the thoughts away as she pulled to a stop at a red light.

She was a few minutes from the station. She had to clear her head and get to work. Work – that she could do. That was what she needed. Whatever Reyes had for her sounded potentially big and, hopefully, like it could keep her busy for days, maybe weeks. And if Crane’s dream thing panned out, there was another problem to throw her weight behind…postpone whatever ‘come to Jesus’ moment Jenny insisted needed to happen between her and the lanky man occupying all her thoughts from sun up to sun down lately.

As she sat waiting for the light to change, worrying her lip between her teeth and rolling her eyes at this stupid mess she was in, she suddenly felt cold. But it was a stranger sensation than just being chilly. There was no reason for it. Her AC wasn’t on. The air outside, coming in through her cracked window, was mild and slightly humid. This wasn’t that. This was a searing coldness, concentrated at the back of her neck.

Distracted and confused, she happened to look up at the rearview mirror absentmindedly.

Abbie froze. A chill ran straight through her. Her heart skipped several beats.

She saw a pair of absolutely terrifying eyes staring back at her in the mirror. For just a moment. Cold, green eyes. Set deep into a pale, peaked face, crowned by messy red hair. A face like death; void of any emotion but one. Hatred. Abbie felt the hatred emanating from those eyes like a knife to the gut. Then the face vanished.

She gasped and turned around abruptly in her seat, fumbling for her seatbelt and her gun with stiff fingers. She felt a vicious chill rip through her as she cautiously leaned over to examine the back seat. There was nothing back there.

“What the hell…?”

She had just seen Katrina. She knew it in her gut.

Then she heard a strange sound. A hiss?

Abbie turned to the passenger side of her car, and saw an enormous black snake staring dead at her.

“ _H-Holy shit!_ ” she shouted, flying backward until she hit the door hard, raising her gun swiftly. But the snake only stared at her, its eyes as green as the ones she’d just seen in her rearview mirror. Its pointed head moved this way and that oddly, its eyes glittering. Several car horns sounded behind her; the light must have changed. One car angrily swerved around hers to pass her because of the green light. Abbie held her gun trained on the snake, intent on blowing its head off if it so much as twitched in her direction as she used her other hand to unbelt herself and fumble for the car door jam.

Just as Abbie got the door clicked open, her gun shaking in her hands as this creepy ass snake stared her down, the thing burst into flames. She actually felt the heat of the combustion rushing toward her face.

Abbie cried out as she fell into the street. The impact of her back, butt, and head hitting the hard, unforgiving asphalt knocked the wind out of her and sent stars shooting across her vision.

More car horns sounded, and then suddenly a Lincoln Towncar came to a panicked, abrupt stop _just before it crushed her head_. She rolled away and got up on shaky legs, her head spinning, feeling alarmed and disoriented as she stared hard into her car through the open driver’s side door.

The snake had disappeared. There was a large, nasty burn mark all over her passenger seat. Heart pounding, Abbie stepped slowly toward the vehicle, gun ready at her side, cars forgotten. The mild chaos was only a blur in her periphery as she leaned in, examining the burn mark on her seat. It looked like…words? She couldn’t tell. It was a mess in there.

“Lieutenant Mills?!”

She spun around to see Officer Jake Morrison running towards her from across the street, holding his hand out authoritatively to keep the traffic from advancing in his path. The rookie had concern and alarm etched all over his boyish face as he came to a stop at her side, reaching cautiously for his gun.

“Hey…” he frowned, catching his breath from his jaunt through traffic. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Abbie blinked at him, her head feeling like pulp; her heart pounding. “I, uh…thought I saw something,” she mumbled, turning back to look into the car again.

Jake frowned. “Saw what?” He stared in after her.

Abbie shook her head, a little shaken up over what she’d just experienced. “Crane’s proof…” she muttered under her breath just as another car honked.

Jake didn’t answer. He was preoccupied by the large burn mark. “What did _that_?” he gestured to her passenger seat. Then he seemed to remember something and waved his hand to get her attention. “Oh, crap I almost forgot. Hey, you need to report to the station A.S.A.P.”

His words sobered Abbie up somewhat, and she turned to squint at him, finally holstering her gun. “What’s the rush?”

“Captain Reyes put out a call. Said to tell you to head straight to the precinct if we spotted you grabbing coffee or somethin’. Rhodes and me were at the Starbucks over there. I saw you take that fall just now.” He explained, shrugging, though clearly still perturbed by what he was looking at. He hit her with a hailstorm of questions. “What happened here? You sure you’re all right? Should I call for backup? You took a nasty fall; you need medical attention? Yeah, YEAH!” He shouted abruptly as another driver honked angrily. “Police business, move it along!”

His partner Rhodes was jogging over now; older fella, salt and pepper buzz cut, big chested like a gorilla. Abbie didn’t like Rhodes much. He’d been a beat cop for a long time, knew everybody on the force, and had a big mouth that spewed sexist shit with a little too much gusto for Abbie’s comfort. She usually avoided interacting with him in case she got the urge to deck him in the face. He came to a stop in front of them, taking off his dark aviators.

“Hey, Mills! You need to report, _now_. Orders from the lady boss.” Abbie grit her teeth. Disrespectful bastard. He probably assumed she was in trouble with Reyes and definitely appeared to be taking pleasure in that misconception. “What happened, you shoot a kid?”

She licked her lips and ran both hands through her hair, gathering her patience. She had calmed down and her head, though it hurt, had stopped spinning. “Nope.”

“Well, you better get your ass in gear, anyway. Reyes is on the war path.” Rhodes smirked. “Rumor has it there are Feds sniffing around the joint, too. Buncha pencil dicks. Can’t believe you almost went to Quantico to join up with those pussies.”

“We’ll escort you, let’s go.” Jake said quickly, sensing that Abbie’s patience was almost up. He looked embarrassed; not the first time she’d seen Rhodes breaking in a rookie. At the moment, Abbie was more interested in the news that there were federal officers involved in a potential case.

Her phone buzzed. She immediately thought of Crane and grabbed for it. It was Reyes. She sighed hard and nodded to the two officers, turning to get back into her car as she answered the call.

“Mills.”

“Mills, you’d better be here in five minutes. I’m starting your briefing _now_. You’re on the clock.”

“Be there in five, ma’am.” Abbie confirmed, climbing in after nervously checking for any signs of another surprise. She buckled up and closed the door, her eyes darting at the giant scorch mark on her passenger seat and back to the road every few seconds. She needed to examine the thing later. Take pictures of it for Crane. She could smell the lingering odor of burnt leather. It was all that remained of an enormous snake that appeared out of nowhere and burst into freakin’ flames right in front of her. Not to mention those eyes she saw in the rearview mirror. _I need to call Crane..._

Reyes’ voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Good, because we’ve got a serious situation here. We’ve been monitoring a case out of Chester, Pennsylvania and it just blew wide open. You listening?”

“Chester, Penn; got it.” Abbie confirmed distractedly, the thought of calling Crane still nagging her as she followed the other officers’ cruiser through the intersection and down the street. She didn’t understand why they needed the theatrics for a five-minute ride. _Damn Rhodes always tryin’ to show off in front of the rookies_ …she thought. Their flashing, whaling siren made her head hurt. She had hit it pretty hard when she fell out of the car. She hoped she wasn’t experiencing signs of a mild concussion. No time to get it checked out. She wasn’t having any problems focusing her vision, so she figured she was safe for now.

“Is that you I see? Let’s talk face to face.” The captain’s severe voice cut into her thoughts.

She was pulling up to the station, now, and Reyes was outside with a case file in one hand, disconnecting their call on her phone in the other.

Abbie took a deep breath and forced herself to put her phone in her back pocket as she parked and got out of the Range Rover. She would have to call Crane when Reyes was done. Or go straight to him in the archives. He and Jenny may have arrived by the time this briefing was over. A briefing so urgent that Reyes would put out an A.P.B., apparently. And there were Feds here. Right—focus. Time to be a cop.

“Isaiah Martin.” The captain said, handing Abbie the file and turning to stride into the station, her posture conveying an absolutely no nonsense attitude. Abbie paused, her heart skipping several beats for the second time in ten minutes. _Isaiah._ She didn’t have to look at the case file. She knew him. He was the one kid she’d given the pie talk to; the kid she couldn’t save. Reyes glanced back impatiently and Abbie kicked her ass in gear, following quickly.

Memories of Isaiah were now swimming through her head. He was young, sad, angry, intelligent—and bipolar. He was brilliant and passionate, but unpredictable and at times very frightening. She’d spent the entire time she’d been in his life trying to think of a way to calm him; get him to channel his volatile tendencies into something positive and productive. She couldn’t save him, in the end. Her hope had failed her that time.

Reyes continued rapid fire, walking brusquely. “Spent a few months in Tarrytown until he was transferred to maximum security at Chester State last year for stabbing a security guard. Overflowing prison population, bureaucratic crap, yadda yadda, you get the picture.”

Abbie remembered the stabbing. It had happened right before she got the acceptance letter from Quantico. So much had happened since then, without realizing it she had moved on and forgotten about Isaiah. _How could you forget about Isaiah?_

“Tossed around foster care when he was a kid, caught for stealing at fifteen, sent to juvie for six months, broke probation, stole a vehicle, assaulted a cop in 2012…yeah.” Abbie continued for her, avoiding her gaze as she followed Reyes into the station. “I know him.”

“Correct.” Reyes paused in front of the processing area, her eyes trained on Abbie’s. She was looking for signs of discomfort. Assessing whether or not her lieutenant was going to become distracted by her history with the perp, or use that history to her advantage. Abbie met her gaze with as much fortitude as she could muster. “You were his arresting officer three times. I pulled your file when I first got here, remember?”

“Yes ma’am…” Abbie concurred, bouncing on her feet with strained patience. “Excuse me, Captain, but…what is going on? What’s Isaiah done?”

Reyes sighed and shifted on her feet, looking almost contrite, which was alarming to Abbie. “Look, I wouldn’t be putting you on this case if I didn’t think you could handle it. I trust you, Mills.”

“Understood. Thank you.” Abbie nodded, still waiting.

Reyes stared at her, hesitating. Whatever it was he’d done, it was bad. The captain took a breath and plowed on: “He escaped about a week ago and ever since, there’s been a string of unsolved homicides across Pennsylvania. Same M.O. Every single victim was shot in the back of the head, execution style. No obvious connection except the bullets. A bank teller. A kids’ soccer coach. Priest. Even another cop. The last killing was the alderman’s wife. Word down the pipeline is they’ve been trying to keep it under wraps, but the cat’s outta the bag. There’ll be a press conference in Chester in less than an hour.”

“Jesus…” Abbie swallowed a thick knot of dread. “He killed those people?”

Reyes nodded gently, then shifted back into cop mode and started walking again. Abbie followed, refocusing herself and swallowing down her disappointment in Isaiah. Her disappointment in herself, for failing to help him overcome his demons.

“It’s been looking that way for the last twenty-four hours. There’s been a manhunt underway, but never any signs of him until another soul is lost. Until recently. He left a note with the alderman’s wife’s body. It talks about…demons.” She looked as if she could barely tolerate saying the word with any modicum of deference.

Yet again, Abbie was stopped in her tracks. “Demons?”

Reyes urged them on. To her surprise, they bypassed Reyes’ office and headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall. As they stepped in, Abbie felt her phone buzzing in her pocket. She knew without looking that it was Crane. She wondered how many times he’d called her already. She knew that he’d be super annoyed—he hated it when she took off without telling him where she was going, how long she’d be gone, and why he couldn’t come too. _But **I’m** the one smothering **him**_ , she couldn’t stop herself from thinking sarcastically.

Reyes started leading them up the three short flights to the roof, where there was helicopter access, and a thousand prickly needles of adrenaline hit Abbie all over her body. As she followed, Crane’s voice echoed in her head.

 _“I cannot help feeling that we should not be separated under any circumstances…”_ he had said in the kitchen earlier. She swallowed a thick knot of dread as they climbed and Reyes talked.

“Yes, demons, lieutenant. He claims that everyone he murdered was…well, one of those.” Reyes gestured dismissively, her cynicism showing in her face. She paused on the second flight and turned to Abbie, nodding to indicate the file in Abbie’s hand. “Everything’s in the file, but let’s put it this way: your job in this case is to work the perp and get to the bottom of this, _no stunts_ , got it? The Feds aren’t just interested in you because Martin is connected to you. They do their homework, Mills.”

Abbie squared her shoulders and clenched her jaw, but said nothing. ‘Their homework’ meant they probably knew everything about her. In so many words, Reyes confirmed as much, counting off her fingers.

“Corbin’s strange death. Your work to bust up that satanic cult, that mess with those thugs wanting to sacrifice Mayor Winston’s daughter in _exactly_ the same spot you and your sister were found fourteen years ago…and I won’t even mention your currently known ties to Frank Irving, or a whole string of other weird shit I’ve seen since I got here.”

She dipped her head from side to side and crossed her arms, as if to say that her point was fairly obvious. Right. So Reyes wasn’t a fool. She hadn’t gotten to where she was by being especially _un_ observant.

“Needless to say, once the Feds took over, it wasn’t long before I got a call.” She sighed, clenching her jaw.

Abbie spoke up. “Why are they here, though, ma’am? It just doesn’t add up. They only just learned about me. Why did they take over the case in the first place?”

Reyes looked annoyed, but not with her. “I’m not privy to that information.” She took a deep breath before continuing gravely: “But like I said, the case took a turn this morning. It’s not just that the last execution was too high-profile to keep under wraps—about an hour ago, he called into a local precinct in Chester and asked _specifically for_ _you_ , Mills. I convinced the Feds to let you _consult_ on the case rather than allowing them to try to interrogate you. Don’t ask me how I managed.”

Abbie was more interested in the ‘why’ part. She had no doubt pulled strings. Frank wasn’t the only guy in Westchester County who had connections. Abbie suddenly realized just how much Reyes must trust her; to go out on a limb for her like this. She could very easily be facing interrogation, and a much deeper look into what she and Crane got up to in Sleepy Hollow. Instead she was going to consult on the case and help the Feds bring Isaiah in. She silently vowed to herself to do her utmost to be sure they brought him in alive.

And to get to the bottom of this demon thing. Reyes wasn’t aware, but if there were any truth to his story…she’d have to play this very, very carefully.

They made it to the top floor in silence and Reyes flung open the door. The helicopter was already going, waiting for her. A great rush of air from its big, rapidly spinning propellers swept into the stairwell through the open door, blowing Abbie and Reyes’ hair all over their heads, nearly drowning out the older woman’s next words. She reached a hand behind Abbie’s back and ushered them out of the safety of the building, onto the landing pad.

Abbie’s phone buzzed again in her pocket. Crane was calling or texting her again, probably very worried about her. She had so much to tell him, and they were sending her away _right now_. Nothing about this was good.

“What are you not telling me?” Abbie stopped walking stubbornly and turned to face the captain.

Reyes looked as if she had saved the worst for last. They were stopped just near the helicopter, the noise and the wind relentlessly trying to drown out their conversation. There was a stern-looking federal officer standing at the passenger door, waiting. He had scruffy blond hair but he was going bald, he was tall and he stood rigidly, making no attempt to greet or call to them.

“The other reason they need the press conference. The other reason they can’t keep this under wraps anymore: Martin is holding hostages at an unknown location. Says he’ll kill them all…if he doesn’t get _you_. He’s playing games with us.” Reyes shouted somberly. “He’s asking for you, so _I’m_ asking for you. Forget about the Feds. You’ve gotta _shut this down_ , Mills. Before anyone else is killed.”

The full weight of what the police captain was asking of her hit Abbie all at once. It was a lot of information to take in. She understood why the woman broke it up into a series of mini-bombs instead of dropping the whole damn thing on her at once. Still, she felt the impact just as heavily.

Reyes stepped back, clearly done with her briefing.

“My jurisdiction ends here, but I expect you to report when you land and keep me posted on any shifts in the case. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good luck, Lieutenant.”

Abbie nodded her thanks, turning to face the helicopter and the waiting FBI agent.

Now would be a good time to finally call Crane back.

 

* * *

 

(Jenny.)

 

Crane hurried inside to grab his phone and keys and secure the cabin while Jenny went to retrieve the truck.

It was his prized Ford Bronco, her favorite thing to drive. She got exercise driving this thing. She hadn’t done it in a while, since flipping it over on Route 9 last year. But as she climbed inside and started her up, she felt right at home, despite the bad memory. She was glad they’d managed to save the engine and repair the damage. She had good memories of this truck, too. Like all those times Corbin sat beside her, drinking coffee and reading the paper with his glasses perched atop his long nose as they staked out a potential lead on one of the many secret cases they’d worked together over the years. She felt a pang of sorrow, thinking of him, and realized just how much she missed him.

Jenny forced the memory away, taking a deep breath and honking the horn at Crane, who was taking pictures of the scorch marks on the porch with his phone.

He nodded and hurried toward the truck with a purposeful, long-legged stride. He was already dialing Abbie as he climbed in.

Jenny called Frank. “What’s up, gorgeous?”

She couldn’t help an amused smirk at his already more intimate greeting. If they hadn’t just seen a ghost and her pet snake leave behind an ominous warning on the porch, she’d be tempted to flirt back.

“We’re on the clock. Meet me and Crane at the archives? Fill you in when we get there. And, uh…” she paused, glancing around her as she maneuvered the truck around and out of the carport at the far side of the cabin, “Do me a favor and let me know if you see any ghosts or self-immolating snakes hanging around?”

He scoffed. “Self-immolating snakes? You still drunk?”

“I wish. I’ll explain later. We’ll be there in twenty minutes, I’m gonna gun it.”

“Don’t get pulled over. See you there.”

They hung up just as Jenny got them onto the main road. Next to her, Crane gritted fiercely through clenched teeth: “Oh, you great—useless— _bollock_ s _!_ ” He stabbed at his phone with his thumb to end the call.

She raised an eyebrow at his general direction, keeping her eyes on the road. “Can’t get through, I’m guessing.”

“This is my third attempt. Either she is in danger or she is _ignoring_ my calls.” He grunted, now concentrating on stabbing out a text message to Abbie and attaching the photos he took of the scorch marks.

 

_‘LIEUTENANT, BEWARE._

_Serpent. Large. Black. Erupts to flames. Leaves this behind._

_RETURN MY CALLS IMMEDIATELY UPON RECEIVING THIS TEXT.’_

 

 _Wow, he sure has gotten the ‘all caps-equal-urgent-screaming’ memo_ …Jenny thought with a smirk as she glanced at his phone screen and back at the road again.

“Okay, talk to me, Crane. What the hell is going on?”

He wasted no time launching into his theory.

“Those words were written in Coptic. An ancient Egyptian language that predates even the origins of Katrina’s coven.”

“Coptic—yeah, I know of it. I just can’t read it. Yet.”

He nodded and continued. “Not even the Grand Grimoire dates back that far. _It makes no sense._ ” He was nervously checking his phone as he spoke, probably hoping for a text or call from Abbie.

“And the snake?” 

“A curse vision, I’m sure of it. But I cannot determine the origin. I need more information. _And_ _I need_ _Abbie to answer her phone_.” He grunted when they were forced to stop for a freight train. She’d rarely seen him so impatient.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment, his jaw clenched. _Damn, Icky’s intense_ , she thought to herself as he glared through the windshield again. She knew why, of course. She’d be willing to bet that he was monumentally more worried about Abbie than was letting on. And more attached to her than he’d ever admit. She could practically feel the worry quaking inside of him as he glared at the road, his eyes unseeing. He’d been like this ever since Katrina and Henry died. Wearing thicker skin, watching Abbie’s every move, and pretending that he wasn’t going quietly mad with love for her big sister. _Stupid_ , Jenny thought, really wanting to say something to snap him out of it. But now wasn’t the time.

Right. Deep shit. Still in it.

“Okay, can I ask another question?” Jenny piped up again when they’d moved on from the train tracks and he’d called Abbie for the fourth time, to no avail. He nodded and heaved a breath to expel some of his nervous energy, seemingly grateful for the distraction from his worried thoughts. “What about what I saw before the snake? The red-haired woman in the woods?”

Crane leaned toward her slightly, eyeing her profile as she drove. “Are you certain that’s what you saw?”

Jenny paused, remembering the chill in the air. The flash of movement. The red hair and the feeling of being watched. Carefully. Coldly.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she said after a moment, fighting off a chill at the memory of it alone. “Does this mean she’s back? Katrina?”

Crane sighed hard. When he spoke next, his voice was low, filled with apprehension. “With the evidence presented before us, that’s the most likely conclusion, yes. And I fear that if Katrina has indeed returned, free of the constraints of her mortal form, she could be far more powerful than we can possibly anticipate.”

“You mean far more _dangerous_.”

Crane merely nodded, his eyes like ocean waves in a storm.

Jenny let that sink in. She remembered Katrina and Henry’s plot to ‘awaken’ all the witches and warlocks in Sleepy Hollow and beyond. She remembered what Henry had done to Frank, and hearing the story of what Katrina had almost done to Abbie. The damage she’d almost caused to the outcome of the war. All that when she was alive. What the hell was she capable of as a spirit?

“Okay. So this is _really_ bad.” Jenny muttered, sitting up in the driver’s seat and accelerating to more than a few clicks past the speed limit. “And you think she’s after Abbie?”

She saw his jaw clench tightly out of the corner of her eye. She took that as a ‘yes’.

Intense silence fell over them as he studied the images on his phone of the words scorched into the porch. Jenny drove as quickly as she could without resorting to too many traffic violations. Early morning rush hour was always a bitch when it really got going. They had reached the busiest part of town, where folks from the outlying suburbs came in to work or pass through.

“Are there no _laws_ to prevent this obstruction?” Crane grumbled suddenly when they’d slowed to a crawl, jammed up at an intersection.

Again, she felt his worry for Abbie practically radiating off of him. At the same time, she couldn’t stop some hard questions from piling up in her head. She had to know. Behaving ‘appropriately’ be damned.

“Look, this might be a sore subject, but under these crazy ass circumstances, I gotta ask: Are you feeling any…uncertainty…about Katrina?”

He turned abruptly to look at her, stunned out of his annoyance. “I beg your pardon?”

Jenny felt the intensity of his probing gaze, but kept her eyes on the road. They were about ten minutes from the station. “I _mean_ , if you’re right, and Katrina _is_ back, and somehow you end up having to make another choice like before—?”

“There is no choice, Jenny.” He cut her off, his voice hard and clear. “It will always be Abbie.” He paused, and she took her eyes off the road to see an expression on his face that confirmed everything she’d suspected for a while now. He met her eyes again, resolute. “It always has been.”

“Good.” She replied, focusing on switching lanes, noticing the fact that he was using Abbie’s first name more and more lately. “I mean it’s kind of obvious, but I had to make sure. She’s my sister.”

He nodded. “Understood.” After a pause, he squinted inquisitively at the traffic ahead, his eyes flickering sidelong at her and back again. He gesticulated with his slender fingers. “And, by ‘obvious’, you mean…”

“It’s pretty obvious to everyone who’s around the two of you for longer than five minutes that you’re in love with her? Yeah. Why do you think that Luke guy transferred to another county?”

He blinked several times, the meaning of her words apparently settling in. “I see. And by ‘everyone’…?”

Jenny smirked. “Everyone except Abbie, of course.”

“Right.”

Crane’s fingers curled and unfurled in his lap. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Jenny decided to let him off the hook; his curiosity was going to shoot through his fingertips at any moment. “It’s okay, Icky.”

He crushed his eyes shut in annoyance and she pressed on quickly to prevent him from grumbling about the nickname she refused to stop using.

“I think it’s the best thing that could happen to both of you. So why don’t you just tell her?”

“It isn’t quite so simple. Your sister is a formidable, complex woman. But, like you said, she seems content to treat my affections as merely the ‘cute’ trappings of some ‘eighteenth-century dude’ persona. After all we’ve been through, I’m dismayed to find that she still has so little understanding of how much she means to me.”

“How much _does_ she mean to you?” Jenny couldn’t help asking.

He was silent for a minute as they closed in on the station. “Let us say: Your earlier assessment is the correct one.”

Jenny rightly took his meaning. So, he was in love with Abbie. That knowledge gave Jenny hope, and made her feel just the tiniest bit less nervous about all this Katrina business. She knew what Crane was capable of when he fought for someone he loved. Abbie told her about the tree monster. About his fierce anger in the face of any threat to his loved ones. She was going to count on that.

“You have to tell her, Crane.”

“She has stubbornly thwarted my every attempt,” he countered, “whether she’s aware of it or not. And if I’m to be honest, I’m not at all certain she shares my feelings.”

“Come on, don’t tell me a tenacious genius like you can be so easily ‘thwarted’ by a pint-sized cop with a stubborn streak. You’ve been up against much scarier shit.”

“And what if you’re wrong? What if she can only see me as little more than some sort of ‘Doctor Who’ caricature? The last thing I wish is to diminish our friendship or jeopardize our bond as Witnesses to pursue my own selfish desires.”

“You _know_ her. She isn’t losing sleep and running herself ragged for ‘Doctor Who’. She’s doing it for _you_ , and that’s not the kind of devotion you give out of pity, or some misguided fantasy. Abbie doesn’t do fantasy. Trust me.”

“I’m afraid matters of the heart will have to wait. Now, there is indeed ‘much scarier shit’ that begs our immediate attention…” Crane trailed off, studying the landscape, his eyes already seeking out Abbie’s SUV as they pulled up to the station.

Jenny wanted to remind him that matters of the heart didn’t wait for anything or anyone, and he’d be wise to avoid learning that the hard way—again. But he was distracted by the sight of Abbie’s Range Rover, parked just ahead of them, right in front of the station entrance.

She pulled into a space near a parking meter, behind Abbie’s car. The question popped into her head suddenly as she shut the truck off and pulled out her key. She paused and held his arm to stop him before he could get out. “Hey. What does that scorch mark actually say?”

He looked back at her, an ominous storm swirling around in his pretty blues. “It’s a passage from the bible: _‘Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder’_. Reciting this passage was tradition at the time Katrina and I were wed to seal the bond of the bride and groom. I am afraid it makes me all the more certain that she is behind what we saw. But her methods…make no sense. I’ve no idea what’s coming next.”

Jenny felt a giant chill rip through her from her hair follicles to the tips of her toes. That was the source of his alarm. This mystery wasn’t like their regular apocalypse-busting; this was a personal vendetta. Spirit or not, Katrina knew her man. Before this was over with, it was going to test the hell out if him. The surest test was going to be the threat of harm to Abbie, without knowing when or where or how it would strike.

Jenny could see it in his eyes and feel it constricting the muscles in his arm. And she finally understood how grave the situation actually was.

“Jesus, Crane.”

“Indeed...” he nodded solemnly as they got out of the Bronco.

 

* * *

  

(Ichabod. / Jenny.)

 

Ichabod gripped his phone tightly in his right hand as they walked into the station. He focused on a singular purpose: finding Abbie and seeing for himself that she was unharmed and out of danger.

The mystery of the serpent, the very personal warning levied at him in an ancient dialect that ought not to belong in the arsenal of a witch from Katrina’s coven, and the implications of his dream replayed over and over in his mind as he sauntered into the building with Jenny on his heels. He should have stayed in the room and made certain that Abbie agreed not to separate from him until they could gather more evidence, _together_. He should have obeyed his instincts then, but he was unwilling to impose himself on her so soon after he’d done such a _splendid_ job of it the night before.

The fact that she still had not returned his texts or phone calls caused a tumultuous disquiet to gather in him and propel him forward through the station. He paid little attention to the men and women around him as his eyes sought out one petit form in particular. Most of Abbie’s fellow officers kept him at a distance. They either continued to dwell on his mysterious arrival in Sleepy Hollow nearly two years ago, or they dismissed him as an interloper who showed them up whenever he consulted on a case.  They called him ‘The Professor’, a nom de guerre Detective Morales left as a parting gift that seemed to have stuck.

“Any sign of her?” Jenny piped up, looking around with him. Her desk was empty. Indeed, it looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the last time they were here.

“None…” he muttered, attempting to quell his ever-mounting dread.

“Oh no you don’t, Professor.” It seemed he would be forced to endure this unfortunate ‘nickname’ every time he entered this building. A tall, stocky officer with graying hair, the owner of the gruff voice, sauntered over to them. Officer Rhodes, Ichabod remembered. Abbie disliked him. She sometimes mentioned his less than enlightened view of women. “We’re not in need of your, uh, _special_ services today. Yours either, cupcake.” He eyed Jenny with thinly veiled disdain.

Jenny simply gave him a defiant smile, taking pleasure in knowing that she could take him down in three moves. Or less. He looked like a fella who ate a lot of red meat and didn’t get as much exercise as he pretended he did.

“Officer Rhodes, hello.” Ichabod would remember his manners, no matter how pigheaded his audience. “Thank you, but I am not here to consult. We _are_ looking for Leftenant Mills, however, if you could be so kind as to—”

“You’re looking for Lieutenant Mills? We just escorted her.” Another, much younger officer appeared behind them. Ichabod remembered him as Officer Jake Morrison, a ‘rookie’ whom Abbie spoke of much more amiably. Ichabod immediately shifted his full attention to the young man. “You’re that guy she works with all the time, right?”

“You’ve seen her?” This time, at the mention of a sighting of Abbie, Ichabod wasted no time with pleasantries.

“Yeah, ran into her earlier. She had some kind of accident up the road.”

“Was she hurt?” The young officer was caught of guard as Ichabod devoured the space between them with concern flooding his voice.

“She seemed fine…” Officer Morrison answered slowly, taking a step back. “A little shaken up, maybe, but then the Captain called and we brought her here.”

“What happened? Can you tell me _exactly_?” Ichabod implored.

“I don’t know…she fell out of her car, almost got ran over. Said she saw something but couldn’t tell me what.”

Ichabod and Jenny exchanged glances. Morrison simply looked puzzled and quite a bit as though he regretted ever speaking up.

“Where is she now? We need to find her.” Jenny asked him.

Jake shrugged. “She just got choppered outta here with some Feds.”

Ichabod frowned.

“She got flown out by helicopter? With _federal agents_?” Jenny stepped in, rightly assessing that some of those words didn’t quite compute for Crane. She also had to repeat it just to make sure she heard it right. Boy, this morning just kept getting more interesting by the minute, not to mention alarming.

“Yeah.” Jake replied as if that was just another day at the Sleepy Hollow P.D.

Except it wasn’t. Jenny couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard of the F.B.I. descending on this county, and she was a girl who learned a long time ago to keep her ears to the ground, being on the run and living under the radar of the authorities for so long.

“For what reason? Where are they taking her?” Ichabod demanded, cold dismay filling his veins.

“That’s official police business and none of your concern.” It was Reyes who spoke next, and the other officers practically scurried out of her way as she walked toward them from the direction of her office.

 

“Uh oh…” Jenny muttered under her breath. Reyes did not like her. She couldn’t say she liked the older woman much either. She avoided her like the plague whenever they were here, usually preferring to skip the bullpen and go straight to the archives through the tunnels.

“I suppose you two have a good excuse for snooping around my precinct?”

Ichabod straightened his posture and clasped his hands behind his back. He always felt as though he were dangerously close to losing favor with the captain whenever they interacted. She only gave him reprieve from her hawkishness whenever he worked cases with Abbie, though she behaved as though she expected him to bungle his duties as a consultant until he inevitably proved her wrong.

“I am looking for my partner.” He said, keeping his voice as steady as he could under the circumstances. She regarded him incredulously. She had information he needed, and she looked as if she knew it, and he was further dismayed to observe that she intended to withhold it even before she spoke.

“Your partner?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Crane, I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but Lieutenant Mills doesn’t _have_ a partner. Officially, you’re still not on county payroll—” She pushed forward when he opened his mouth to protest, “—and the _leniency_ I afford you as a freelance, _civilian_ consultant ends and begins precisely when I say it does. So try again.”

She wasn’t in a trying mood, then. He sighed and changed tack. “Of course, that is understood. However, as the Leftenant and I have assisted in helping you close _no less than five_ cases that proved, shall we say, _overwhelming_ to your perpetually short-staffed precinct, I must respectfully disagree with your assessment of our working relationship. We are very much partners, Captain. And I need to find her. It’s urgent. Will you assist me, or not?”

Reyes regarded him coolly, her expression unreadable. Ichabod did not back down. The other officers around them had gone tellingly silent; hanging on every word of their exchange while half-heartedly pretending to be working.

For her part, Jenny kept quiet, too. She was hoping Reyes wouldn’t turn her razor-sharp focus on her at all. _Way to stand up to the Cap, Icky_ …she thought. He was sexy when he was defiant. She had to hand it to him.

After a long pause, Reyes sighed and rubbed her temples. “I didn’t mean to imply that your efforts in closing any of those cases have gone unappreciated, Crane.” Ichabod nodded stiffly in acceptance of her pseudo apology. “Look—all I can tell you is that Lieutenant Mills is on assignment in Chester and it’s out of my hands.”

“Chester?” Jenny muttered, frowning. Reyes noticed her finally, but this time her curiosity was stronger than her desire to avoid being scrutinized by the top cop in the building. “What the hell is in Chester?”

“A federal murder case.” The captain answered bluntly. “I’m not at liberty to tell you any more than that.”

Ichabod noticed the note of resentment in the captain’s voice. “You’ve been shut out of the case.”

Her eyes narrowed at him and she crossed her arms. “Like I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you.” A pause. “But, I’ll do my best to keep tabs on her, that’s all I can promise. I’d suggest you two sit tight until you hear from her or me.”

She started to walk away, clearly considering the matter closed, but Ichabod was having none of it. He quickly and deftly stepped around her to block her path, his long legs giving him the advantage. “Captain, please.” He leaned forward, his height folding her into the intensity of his will. He lowered his voice, imploring her. “We have reason to believe her life is in danger.”

Jenny stood still, watching, her brow furrowed deeply. She could see Reyes hesitating, and hoped she’d give the guy a break. “What’s that supposed to mean, Crane?”

He blinked rapidly, and Jenny was annoyed to realize he hadn’t thought ahead of his statement, for once. _He must be really freaking worried about Abbie_ , she thought.

“We received a threat,” Jenny threw him a bone, continuing with her eyes on Reyes. _Go along with it, dude_ , she tried to express using little more than her eyebrows. “From the same guys who wanted to sacrifice the mayor’s daughter, at least we think.”

“You think? Or you know?” Reyes folded her arms, narrowing her eyes in thought.

The woman was a cop through and through. At the very mention of some funny business going on in her town, they had her attention. Jenny used the opportunity to flash Crane a look, and she was relieved to see the confusion clearing from his eyes.

“Ah, not yet,” he continued for her. “We intend to follow the only lead we have, though it is, admittedly, slim. But we must find Abbie.”

 “The threat makes it sound like we shouldn’t be separated.” Jenny added.

Reyes looked from one to the other as they ‘tag-teamed’ to come up with something she’d believe. Ichabod was grateful to Jenny for thinking so quickly. _He had to focus on the present_ ; but his mind was on Abbie and it made him desperate to have his way. If they could gain the captain’s trust, they could perhaps convince her to cooperate in an official capacity should they require it. Perhaps they could even persuade her to bring Abbie home, he dared hope.

“And you think this threatens Mills directly?”

“It threatens us all, Captain. At the moment, my only goal is to make certain my partner is safe.”

Reyes seemed to snap out of her temporary distraction by their case bait. She lifted her hands at them in a sign for them to slow their roll. “Look, Lieutenant Mills is working a case, alright? She’s profiling for the F.B.I.; she’s in good hands, and frankly, she knows how to take care of herself.” Her tone was almost scornful, her expression suggesting that she disapproved of him for underestimating Abbie so easily. “Get me hard proof of this threat and I’ll get a team together to neutralize it; the last thing I want is a crazed cult orphan running around my town doing God knows what.”

She did not understand. He was frustrated, and he was about to keep pushing the issue, but Jenny saved them yet again. “We get that, captain. We’ll back off.”

“Good.”

“Can we _at least_ \--?” Crane ground out, still determined to have his way. Reyes swiftly set him straight.

“No, you _cannot_ ‘at least’ anything. _No stunts_ , got it? Get me proof, that’s what you can do. And then I’ll take it from there, _officially_.”

She waited to see if he would try to argue with her again, but he swallowed down his retort and nodded stiffly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. She turned and walked away from them, headed back to her office, considering the matter closed. She called over her shoulder: “When I hear from Mills, I’ll fill her in.”

“Come on, Crane.” Jenny tentatively touched his arm. He was staring after the captain, and she knew he was trying to figure out another way to argue. “ _Hey._ ”

His eyes snapped toward hers when she put a little more attitude in her voice.

“We don’t have time for this. Let’s go find out what the hell is going on.”

“Agreed.” Ichabod let go of his nagging need to find out everything the captain wasn’t telling him about where she’d sent Abbie off to and followed Jenny. This was nothing like working with Captain Irving. The man at least kept them in the loop, and gaining his trust had been considerably less toilsome compared to this current battle of wills. “She isn’t telling us something.” He said as they made their way down to the basement to enter the tunnels.

“Agreed,” Jenny used his term. “The whole thing is strange, the Feds coming here to scoop Abbie up like they’re pen pals…I don’t get it, either. But we can’t worry about it now. I may not like her much, but Captain Reyes is right. Abbie can take care of herself.”

Ichabod nodded as he sidestepped an officer headed in the opposite direction. It was an issue he would tend to later; for now Jenny was right, yet again. They needed to move on to the archives to start putting the pieces of this mystery together before they wasted any more time.

As they were entering the room that gained them access to the tunnels, Ichabod’s smart phone buzzed in his pocket. His heart leapt into overdrive and he reached for it immediately, halting his long-legged stride ahead of Jenny and rushing to answer it. “Leftenant? _Where are you?_ ”

Jenny heard the way he lowered his voice and grit his teeth as he turned away from her slightly to grill Abbie on her whereabouts. Yeah. Homeboy was going to need to unleash his pent up feelings for her really soon or he was going to pop his top like a teakettle. At the same time that she was relieved to hear from Abbie, Jenny wondered how in the hell her big sis could fail to notice how utterly sprung Tall, Dark, and British was on her.

She knew it was because even though she was good at acting tough, Abbie was also extremely vulnerable. She hid it well, but she could never fool Jenny.

Ichabod turned away from Jenny and ran a hand through his hair, not feeling at all contrite about his tone.

“We said we’d split up this morning, remember?” _Her_ tone, however, was patient; almost patronizing. She knew perfectly well that he _did_ remember everything, and that _she_ remembered exactly what he'd said as well. It wasn't that. And of course, in her typical fashion when he was this flummoxed with her, she avoided answering his question directly. Maddening woman.

“No, I said it would be best not to separate. _You_ seemed to think dashing off while I was indisposed was a better—!”

“I did _not_ ‘dash off!’” Abbie argued, cutting off his words. “I got called in. There’s a difference, Crane.”

He took a deep breath and tried not to let his relief at hearing her voice again distract him. They’d only been separated a short while. _‘Get a grip,’ Ichabod_ , he chided himself in Abbie’s vernacular. _Focus on the matter at_ _hand..._

“I saw Katrina.”

Dread filled him like a rising tide come to drown him. She rushed it out, and he could picture her biting her lower lip, like she did when she was either anxious about something or unhappy with a given situation. She went on to tell him about seeing Katrina in her review mirror. “Her eyes were there; she was staring at me; next second she was gone.”

“And the serpent. Did you see the serpent after? The officer, Morrison, said you had an accident.”

“Yeah. Sort of. The damned thing was in my passenger seat. It burst into flames, like you said in your text. Left one of those marks behind, too.”

So this was real, and they were cursed. But there was so much more to this that eluded him at this very moment. He could feel it.

“What’s going on, Crane?”

“We haven’t worked out the details, but the current evidence suggests…a curse of some kind. We’re on our way to the archives now. We’ve lost time.”

“But you think Katrina’s back.” She pressed. “You think she cursed us just now?”

“Yes.” Ah, he wished he could see her face. Instead there was miles of space separating them. He wished he had confessed himself by now, so that he could be free to reassure her with more than just his words. For now, he settled on at least getting her physically in range again. He knew he wouldn’t feel at ease until he saw for certain that she was alive and safe. “Please, return to Sleepy Hollow. We shouldn’t be separated until I can--”

“No, I can’t. I’ve got a case.”

“Yes, I know. Jenny and I were just with the captain. She has graciously refused to elaborate until we've conjured hard proof that your life is in danger.” He scoffed and then turned around on the spot, coming up with a shoddy plan. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll just explain the severity of the circumstances more…urgently. She can assign someone else to this case.”

“Crane, that’s stupid. And this is my _job_ ; this is important.”

“Forgive me, was there some sort of interference during the part where I explained that we’re under _a curse_? Of origins, I might add, that are confounding at best. What case is more important that your _life_ , Leftenant?”

“ _This one is._ ” She matched his indignant tone with her own insistent one before taking a deep breath and steadying her voice. “Hear me out, okay?

I know this kid; he’s connected to me. He’s in a lot of trouble. I have to bring him in before a lot of innocent people die. I can’t just walk away from that, Crane.”

He inhaled heavily and nodded into the phone. He remembered himself, then. They were more alike than she knew. Duty first. Always. “Nor would I ask you to. Forgive me.” He meant it sincerely this time.

“You’re forgiven. And you didn’t let me finish. Get a load of this: he says he’s destroying demons. This case could be one of _ours_.”

Ichabod frowned and glanced towards Jenny, who appeared to be texting someone, likely Irving to inform him of their whereabouts.  She paused what she was doing when he uttered: “Demons?”

Abbie explained more of what Reyes wasn’t telling them. That this Isaiah person was from her past, he had been in Tarrytown, and was now on the run—or more like on the hunt, he claimed. For demons. She went on to explain that he’d come out of hiding long enough to kidnap an unknown number of people, threaten their lives, and summon Abbie to Pennsylvania to…what? Play like a fiddle? Lead to her doom? Ichabod felt the dread welling up inside him again, but he swallowed it down.

“I gotta get to the bottom of this. And I have to try to save Isaiah.”

“But, not at the expensive of your life. Please, just…”

“I know. I’ll be careful. You and Jenny work on figuring out this curse thing. Just keep me up to speed. Maybe I can watch out for what’s coming.”

“I’m afraid curses don’t work that way, Leftenant.The only way to stop them is to reverse them. Or kill the conjurer.”

“Well, Plan B is out. So find out how to reverse this. You and Jenny make a great team. And you've got Frank, too. This is what we _do_ , Crane.” He wanted to argue again, but she spoke before he could. “I gotta go; the press conference is starting. I’ll call you back when I can.”

“Abbie—!” He spoke just before she could hang up. “I meant what I said this morning. I cannot lose you.”

He didn’t know how else to say it.

“Crane, the last time we faced Katrina, we survived being separated by a couple hundred years.” She reminded him. “We got this. I’ll keep my phone close.”

She hung up. He filled the following silence with the words echoing in his head. He wished he could’ve said more. But what more could he tell her if it weren’t to tell her everything? _I love you, my heart is irrevocably tethered to your wellbeing, please come back to me. I will come and get you if I must._ He should never have taken his eyes off of her. Now there was no telling when he'd see her again. 

Ichabod shunted his welling dread, straightening his posture and cloaking himself in a sturdy shell of determination. They had work to do. He had to put a stop to whatever was coming for them, and he vowed right then to tell Abbie exactly how he felt before any of it was said and done with.

“Let’s go,” he marched past Jenny and disappeared into the tunnels with her close on his heels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for sticking around. I know updates are slow, but work has always wreaked havoc on my ability to write for myself. Please just know that I will see this story to it's end (I have so much good stuff planned!) and I just hope the wait is always worth it. Working on the next installment right meow!
> 
> -Kendra


	4. her spirit stirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrina's spirit is summoned. She can still have her revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know updates are taking a while. There is good reason, but I think until I'm finished with the next chapter, a spooky interlude is in order.

 

> _you're not rid of me_  
>  _i'll make you lick my injuries_  
>  _i'm gonna twist your head off, see_  
>  _till you say don't you wish you_
> 
> _never, never met her_

_-Rid Of Me, PJ Harvey_

* * *

 

  

(Katrina.)

 

Deep in the dark, creaking corners of the old manor, her spirit stirred. Searching.

It had once been warm within these walls; alive with memories. Love once graced this manor, and magic once gave it energy. Power. Protection. No more. Now the place reeked of death. An ancient, brittle quiet settled over the estate, and it permeated the gloom night and day. The maggots and worms writhed in the dirt when she was near. The crows squawked at her specter’s reflection in the filthy, grey window glass. The walls groaned as her spirit moved through them in the dusk. The shadows draped her like a long, primeval gown. The cold moved with her from room to room, constantly in search of her beloved. Her Jeremy. Her sorrow crept up the walls and filled the corners in the dark.

 _Jeremy…my Jeremy_ …her spirit would weep. _Where are you, beloved?_  

If any living thing should cross this threshold, they’d find the atmosphere thick and oppressive; bitter and unnerving; flooded with a stabbing, grief-stricken anger that felt as old as the manor itself and yet as raw as an open wound. They’d fear to turn their backs on a dark room, for they would feel her gaze on them as if it were an icy breath caressing the skin of their necks. They would fear to look into the darkness, for they would see the shadows move.

But no one had come here for some long time now.

Time, however…was as distant a concept to her now as her body; her soul. She existed now as only a fleeting glimmer in the perpetual gloom. A faint sigh in the dark. Mournful, hollow weeping in the dead of night.

At first, in her sorrow, she relived the horrible, stabbing pain of her son’s demise.

The pain was black as death, cold as ice, and sharp as the blade that killed her. Stabbing over and over and over again for eternity. There was no future, there was no past, there was only _JEREMY! OH MY SWEET LOVE, THEY **MURDERED YOU**!_

 _“Mother…?”_ he had whispered, and expired. Expired. _EXPIRED!_ His soul ripped away, ripping her heart out right along with it. Her spirit wailed in the gloom, moaned in the walls, and rattled in the pipes.

What little concept of waking life she still possessed was fixed on the church and the gunshot and the life leaving her Jeremy’s eyes forever and ever and _EVER AND **EVER**!_

Every night in Purgatory she stole away to the church and lit a candle for her beloved. Her Jeremy. Every night she lit a candle. Every night the strike of the match and the flicker of the flame. Every night she prayed.

And in this manor, this empty, dead house, every night a candle flame shined from the bedroom window on the top floor where she gave birth. For her beloved. Her Jeremy.

Those long, empty years in Purgatory were _nothing_ compared to this hellish torture. To never break from the horrible labyrinth of sorrow and pain, stabbing her over and over and over in the dark, in the gloom, in the thick, spine-chilling silence that permeated every room.

 _“It wasn’t your fault…”_ Ichabod had whispered, his loathsome self-righteousness burning through his eyes.

_No, Ichabod. IT’S YOURS!_

She felt cold hatred as sharply as her horrifying grief. The air froze; the windows iced over; the roses in the garden blackened and crystalized in the path of her ire. _Ichabod Crane, this is **your** doing. I have sacrificed my heart, my body, my powers, my **soul** for you and you repay me by betraying me for that TREACHEROUS SNAKE WHO **MURDERED MY SON**?!_

Grace. Abigail. Mills. The woman who so captivated her husband. The woman who’s every gesture pulled his attention from her, his wife. _HIS WIFE!_ The woman he _twice_ held in her sacred place; in her church; where she lit the candle for her beloved. The woman who stole Ichabod’s loyalty; his trust; his _HEART!_

Her spirit could feel the living soul of Grace Abigail Mills. The spell they cast to banish the Weeping Lady had bound them together in another consciousness, another realm. Her spirit could feel the living soul of the woman she hated, and she shrank away from its searing strength. Its goodness. Its vulnerability. She hated the soul of this woman with as much venom as she did the woman herself.

In her waking life, she had known. Their disgusting betrayal had been but a glimmer in their eyes the very first time she was in the same room with them together. In her sacred place. Where she lit the candle for her beloved. But over time, she could see…oh yes…they longed to touch each other. They longed to say things that hid just below the surface. Both of them. And. Her. _Husband._

It was like looking through a window that showed her the long-forgotten past. When Ichabod stood by, suffering in silence whilst she was betrothed to another. She remembered how she had to pull him, to lure him toward her. How honorable, how contrite he’d been. How troubled by the very thought of betraying his lifelong friend, a man as precious as a brother, for a love he so desperately desired.

Exactly as he was with _Grace Abigail Mills_. Only this time, it was his wife, and not his best friend standing in his way.

At first his glances at the other woman were chaste. Fleeting. A flicker of his eyes to her face and back again. But they soon grew to more than mere glances. He studied her. He indulged in looking at her. He thought his wife couldn’t see, but oh she could. He would glower when his precious Lieutenant was too far from his side; he would stand just a bit taller when she was too near. Tenderness rose to the surface of his voice when he held the other woman in Katrina’s sacred place with his eyes closed.

A cavernous distance began to gather and grow; it was a void that pooled in the center of his eyes whenever he looked at his wife. Detachment had bloomed, spread, and eventually bound him to that woman she hated, leaving his wife alone with her grief.

_Jeremy, oh my Jeremy! Where are you, beloved? Murdered…murdered… **MURDERED**!_

Her spirit seethed in the dead space between the cracks and dark corners of the manor. In her waking life, she had long ago mastered the cunning ways of women. Their treacherous inklings. Their flights of fancy. Their loins led their hearts just as surely as a man’s did. In her waking life, she might secretly admit that carrying out her mission to guide the first Witness to his destiny had been made much easier by the fact that Ichabod Crane was as handsome as a stallion.

And so she _knew_ …Grace Abigail Mills, though her soul was good and strong, was a viper in a virgin’s robes.

 _She lured my husband away._ Just as the witch herself lured him toward his destiny, the Mills snake lured him away from his wife and son. Her sensible manner fooled no one. Her honorable heart be damned. The great, quaking desire to rip the Witness’s living soul from her body filled the spirit’s decrepit dwelling with the rotting perfume of death. Especially during these last weeks, as the crisp winds of fall steadily advanced. As summer dimmed, her spirit could feel Abigail’s living soul more and more, and she hated it more and more, because she could feel its bond with her husband. The Witnesses were comforting each other, longing for each other, stabbing her _over and over and over again_ with their betrayal. She could feel them, hovering around each other, as they had once (but then again, never) hovered together in this manor and conspired to defeat her and the Horseman. As they had twice hovered together in her sacred place, where she lit the candle for her beloved. Her Jeremy.

 _She murdered my son._ And her husband, for all his honor and self-righteous will, succumbed to that viper’s trap, abandoning his wife; ensuring her son’s fate; murdering her by his own hand.

Her spirit languished in the dark, wasting away in empty solitude, hatred and sorrow.

Until one night, at some hour unknown, penetrating the bleak nothingness, she heard a call. 

In the abyss, in the gloom, her spirit stirred. Searching.

This time for the source of the call. It was faint at first. Only an echoing rhythm. Then closer. Closer. Stronger. Many voices joined together. An echo…a rhythm…a chanting noise…

_A coven!_

A coven was calling, chanting, pleading with her spirit in an ancient dialect that belonged to ancestors who, by her time on earth, had long since faded to mythos and lore. _Come fire, rain, wind and earth…come spirit! Come mistress, judge our worth! Come mistress, heed our call! Use us! Hear us! Show yourself!_

Her spirit soared, searching, flying toward the call, through the walls and the forests and the rivers and the stars until their voices were a violent crescendo.

_Hear us! SHOW YOURSELF! Come fire, rain, wind and earth…come spirit! Come MISTRESS! JUDGE OUR WORTH! COME MISTRESS, HEED OUR CALL!_

There were nine of them, huddled together in black robes. Their faces covered in shadow, their hands held out to the center of their circle, where their magic pooled. In the center, inscribed into the old wooden floorboards, was a pentagram. And nestled inside it, its eyes an electric, glowing emerald, was inscribed an enormous black viper, baring its fangs, wreathed in fire. Suddenly, all her long suffering hatred, all her focus on this loathsome creature that manifested her rage against Grace Abigail Mills, made sense. Had her spirit reached out to this coven? Or was this the greatest happenstance the spirit realm could conjure? Eternal torment was indeed a mad thing.

No matter the coincidence. The magic of the coven pulled her toward them, and they felt her presence, hushing their chanting as the hairs on their necks stood on end. The temperature in this chamber dropped and their breath misted before them. The moisture clinging to the lone attic window froze and obscured the night sky from view. The darkness loomed, and they cowered, chilled to their bones.

She showed herself to them.

They gasped and one or two of them scurried away. She merely watched them. Silent. As still as a statue. She smelled the fear seeping through their skin; she could glimpse herself in their glistening eyes. How terrifying, this vision before them! Her spirit was nothing more than a dark specter, swathed in shadow, only her dead green eyes and floating, fiery red hair visible in the darkness. She spoke to them. Her voice was little more than a faint, lifeless, dry whisper:

_Who…calls…my spirit?_

Her eyes swept from one to the other, and they shook where they knelt, terrified beyond speech to have her cold gaze befall them. One brave soul gathered her courage and spoke up. “The Sisterhood of the Vengeful Serpent, my mistress!”

 _Where…is…my Jeremy?_ She moaned.

They looked at each other, confusion spreading among them. They had no answer. Summoned here, and no Jeremy? Anger shot through her, icing over and then cracking the window behind them. They whimpered and cowered until one of them (their leader, no doubt; the one who’d spoken) forced the others to close the circle again. “Mistress, please! Hear us. We seek the Grand Grimoire! We seek the power of the blood!”

They made their plea. They trembled as they begged for her to guide them to the book. They swore their devotion. They offered anything. _Anything._ Their own book of magic ( _and there were others!_ ). Their power. Their allegiance. Their worship. Their vengeance.

 _Yes. I am a witch_ , she remembered. _My powers still course through my spirit. My heart still breathes fire. My betrayal still begs retribution! I CAN STILL HAVE **REVENGE**!_

Feeling her magic again for the first time in what could have been an age, her spirit floated slowly, haltingly, chillingly, toward them. They shook and cowered as she reached a dead, crooked hand to the aging wood they huddled upon. She carved, slowly and with barely contained malice, an inscription. A command. In exchange for her power, in exchange for the book, Grace Abigail Mills must die. Ichabod Crane must follow. But only after she drove him mad. _May they suffer as I have suffered. May they cling to each other in Hell!_

“Yes, our mistress…we will obey…”

They would carry out her command. She moaned for her Jeremy and disappeared into the shadows, back to her torment. Back to her old, decrepit manor where she would haunt its halls, searching for her beloved.

Only now, her spirit danced in the darkness. For soon she would gain the power to leave this prison again, and descend on her poor, foolish husband. The coven had awoken her slumbering magic, and _lo, how the tragic lovers would fall!_ Ere the next moon shown full in the night sky, they would be dead. Dead. _DEAD!_ **_DEAD AS MY BELOVED JEREMY!_**

Her inscription remained marring the old wood. A curse. A vengeful incantation.

_Those whom God hath joined together-_

_Let no man put asunder-_

_KILL GRACE ABIGAIL MILLS-_


	5. some odd shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no question. They were going. It was their only lead; their only way to find out how to reverse Katrina’s curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was by far the hardest to write so far, but so far the most satisfying. Now I'm really getting into the groove. If I've done my job right, it should feel like watching an episode, albeit a teensy bit more immersive...I dare hope!
> 
> I do research, but I also make a lot of stuff up, just to suit the story. I'd like to warn fact-checkers and history buffs, it's all to serve the story. By nature, this show fudges history, injecting Ichabod Crane and a secret war against the apocalypse into the fabric of the birth of the nation and twisting it to suit their narrative. Haha--all that to say ENJOY! And as always, I hope to update much, much sooner.

 

> _i put a spell on you_
> 
> _cause you’re mine_
> 
> _you betta stop the things you do_
> 
> _i ain’t lyin_
> 
> _whooaaah!_

 

_-I Put A Spell On You, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins_

 

 

* * *

 

 

(Abbie.)

 

 

_“I meant what I said this morning. I cannot lose you.”_

Abbie couldn’t stop hearing those words. Or more accurately: Crane’s voice, low and intense, uttering those words in her ear over the receiver.

She couldn’t tell him that she was extremely alarmed about what Katrina could possibly have in store for them, that she was totally at a loss for how she was going to reach Isaiah, or that she hated being apart from him. Despite her little joke about the last time they’d been separated like this, she still hadn’t quite recovered from it. And it was only with him miles away, desperately trying to convince her to come back, that she fully realized it.

But none of that was helpful right now. She forced herself to stop staring at his contact info in her phone, to stop contemplating calling him back. She couldn’t think of what she would say, even if she did. There were no words for how she felt about Crane.

She was in the middle of a mess and she still couldn’t stop dwelling on the look in his eyes this morning. In the midst of all this, she had finally admitted to herself that she wanted him in ways she couldn’t even put into words. Only she had no idea what to do about it. And now Katrina had put a curse on them from beyond the grave. She would laugh if it weren’t so terrifying.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a sudden, sharp whistle. She looked up and around, immediately putting her phone back to sleep and shoving it into her back pocket. She was standing in the exit corridor of a police station that also doubled as a courthouse in Chester, Pennsylvania, waiting for the press conference to start on the courthouse steps. The owner of the sharp whistle was the F.B.I. agent she’d flown here with, Detective Michael Jacoby.

His raspy, Southern twang sounded coolly: “Yo, Mills, show time. Get your butt out here.”

He was chewing gum, and he stepped aside for her as she slipped past him out through the grand exit doors. She heard him popping the gum with his back teeth as she passed, and could only roll her eyes up to the afternoon sun shining in through the windows sitting high in the wall. He was…a character. Nothing like what she’d expected. Nothing like the few agents she’d met as an officer or when she was being considered for Quantico. He seemed so no-nonsense as he stood there observing Reyes and herself on the roof of the Sleepy Hollow police station while the wind from the helicopter made his suit pants bloat. And he definitely was, but he was also a bit of an oddball. Or he possessed a little too much ‘Texas ease’, as Corbin used to call something kinda like this.

When Captain Reyes had dismissed her, she’d turned toward the helicopter, her hair flying everywhere, to face the tall man with the dark shades and blondish, receding hair. Without warning, he grinned. Abbie was taken off-guard as he stepped forward and offered his hand. “Lieutenant Abigail Mills?”

She took it. His handshake was excessively firm. She returned his iron grip the best she could as they shook once. “Yes, sir. That’s me.”

“Detective Jacoby. Get in, we don’t have all day.”

He stepped aside and gestured for her to board the helicopter. His friendly demeanor had switched gears so fast she was almost tempted to give him major side-eye. Instead she nodded once and strode forward to climb into the aircraft.

He climbed in after her and shut the door, knocking on the ceiling, signaling the pilot to get going.

At first, he said absolutely nothing to her for five antagonizing minutes as he read through the case file he’d been carrying. Abbie tried not to look down at what he was reading, but couldn’t help a peek or two. He was reading a case file on her. When people like Reyes or the caseworkers who handled her and Jenny as children said shit like “I read your file,” or “let’s just look at your file, okay?” she always got this knot in her stomach. She never knew exactly how much they had on her, or her mother, or her sister, or anything, really. Every time they said it, there was something new to discover, usually something that didn’t bode well. So this inscrutable F.B.I. agent was reading it now, and the knot in her stomach was bigger and more bothersome than usual. She clutched her own file on Isaiah and watched the scenery until she couldn’t take his rudeness anymore.

“Listen, I know you know that I’m connected to Isaiah Martin,” she began, licking her lips and leaning forward to eye him across the tiny space separating their seats. “And that means I’ll have answers to questions you won’t find in files, so can you just do me a favor and put me out of my misery, here?”

He scoffed, then laughed, chuckling still more as he closed the file and leaned forward to mimic her stance and eye contact. She only saw her reflection in his shades, though, so he could’ve been staring at her tits for all she knew. Instinctively, she leaned back a bit. He nodded, letting loose another chuckle. “Boy you got me there, Lieutenant Mills. Can’t slip none past you, can we?”

She rolled her eyes and sat fully back.

“Look, you can rest your nerves, alright? We only want one thing from you, darlin’.”

She looked back at him, tempted to mouth off but not wanting to push her luck. He could send her packing at any moment, she knew. The F.B.I. were territorial, they usually shut local law enforcement out when they took over. Which made it all the harder for her to trust what he was saying just yet. But she nodded back at him, ignoring his tone for now.

He gestured to the passing scenery. They were flying fast. She couldn’t stare at it too long or she would hurl all over his suit. “I’m guessin’ your captain filled you in. You were summoned by _name_ , Mills.” He took off his sunglasses, and she was almost shocked to find that his eyes were kinder than his demeanor. He was looking at her in wonder. “That kind of lead just doesn’t come around every day. You’re gonna be our profiler; our negotiator. You lead us to him, get him talkin’, get him on your side…get him to give up those hostages.” He grinned again and raised his arms in a _‘and that’s that’_ gesture. “And we’re all happy, nothin’ owed, clean slate. Think you can handle that, darlin’?”

She gazed back at him, nodding resolutely. “Yes, sir, I can.”

By the end of the ride she concluded that Jacoby was no threat to her now, but she wasn’t prepared to count him as an ally just yet either. He was one of those kinds of men that would keep her guessing. She gathered, from their helicopter chitchat, that he was to be her pseudo partner on this thing. It made her long for Crane even more. But Crane was where he belonged: busy trying to find a way to stop some spiritual curse from majorly harming them, possibly killing one or both of them. They had no idea how much time they had, or what was coming next.

She tried not to let herself linger on that. She needed to be in the moment. Crane was probably worried enough for both of them, judging by his tone over the phone. And she knew he, Jenny, and Frank would not stop until they found a way to remove the threat.

Jacoby caught up to her easily as they made their way toward the press circus gathered at the end of the long, marble entrance hall of the courthouse. “Alright, this’ll be over soon, then we _rendez vous_ back in the chief’s office.”

Abbie hoped that meant she would finally get more answers about what the hell was going on. There was something about this case—aside from the mystery of why Isaiah thought he was hunting demons—that wasn’t right. It was hovering just below the surface, eluding her. And it was important. She had a gut feeling that she just could not put her finger on, and that bothered her more than anything else.

The press pit was coming to life after who knew how long they’d been camped out. Word spread that the Chester police chief was on his way, about to take the podium she could see set up at the forefront of the pit. It was too close for comfort for Abbie’s tastes. She had only had to do so four times in her career so far, but she hated giving press conferences. There were so. Many. Damned. Reporters. Especially for big cases. They came from all over, pressing in, heating up the place with their lighting equipment and cameras and frenzy.

Jacoby ushered Abbie toward the pit, and they stood off to the side of the podium. In the ranks were a few local police officers, some of the mayor’s staff, and now the chief was approaching. Red indicator lights in every camera lit up at once; a dozen live broadcasts began simultaneously as she heard the overlapping voices of field reporters acknowledging their studio counterparts and recapping the events that led up to this moment. Jacoby leaned down to mutter in her ear: “Like a bag of cats, ain’t they?”

She spared him a slow nod, but kept her eyes focused on the scene in front of her. The chief could have been Corbin’s younger brother—he was just as tall and somewhat broad, only not as gray-haired as her former friend and mentor. He looked world-weary but he carried himself with the air of a man who really cared. She knew that look. He was not jaded, not after who knew how long on the force. This case, like many others she’d be willing to bet, was something that weighed on him heavily. He hated every second they spent without Isaiah in custody. She saw it written all over his face and in his body language as he approached the podium.

The chief glanced at her and Jacoby before he faced the music, his brow knitting just a bit at the sight of her.

He cleared his throat. “Good morning…” he began. His voice sounded fatigued, but determined. “I’m going to give a brief statement to bring everyone up to speed on what we know. Then a few questions if we have time.”

Cameras flashed. Everyone waited.

“We can now confirm preliminary reports: at two-twenty-eight in the morning yesterday, August sixth, Alderman Branch’s wife, Mrs. Kelly Branch, was found deceased in their home, apparently of a gunshot wound to the head. This was…an execution-style killing.”

Abbie swallowed hard, remembering the crime scene photos Jacoby had shown her in the helicopter. That poor woman looked terrified at the moment of her death. Absolutely terrified. Which means she knew it was coming. Which means that he took the time to tell her of her impending death—and also torture her with the knowledge that nothing she said or did would prevent him from taking her life. It made that enormous knot return to the pit of her stomach, understanding just how far gone Isaiah truly was. She was scared to death that the Isaiah she gave the pie talk to didn’t exist anymore; that she wouldn’t be able to reach him. Somehow, she felt responsible for that woman’s terror. She needed to find a way to put a stop to this.

The chief continued over the flashing camera lights. “There is sufficient evidence that gives us every reason to believe that this latest murder is related to the five other murders occurring across Pennsylvania in the last seventy-two hours.” He could barely get everything out before the pit erupted with voices, trying in vain to ask him questions. He held his hands up for silence, cleared his throat, and pressed on. “We have named a suspect in these crimes, a man confirmed this morning as Isaiah Nicholas Martin, twenty-two years old, of Sleepy Hollow, New York.”

Abbie concentrated on gazing out at the pit, emptying her face of emotion. Inside, she felt sick with guilt. She didn’t know where it was coming from exactly. She just knew the desire in her to make this right was rising up like a tide. Crane was so afraid of her risking her life, but she would just have to keep reminding him that this was what they signed up for. The chief went on to name certain details of the case, and she kept listening for one in particular, but she never got it. She focused a bit more, and heard him announce a curfew.

“The mayor has authorized a citywide curfew. This man is armed and dangerous, and until he is apprehended, we’re asking people to stay in their homes after seven-pm, alright?”

The reporters buzzed and finally he began taking questions. Abbie turned her head slightly and muttered: “No mention of the hostages…”

Jacoby looked down at her, his eyes stabbing into hers. “Won’t be, either.” She started to ask why the hell not, but he cut her off. “Keep it zipped ‘til this is over, Mills. You’ll get your answers soon enough.”

Abbie turned her eyes front again, her jaw clenched. This case was already presenting more questions than answers, and she’d only been on it for a couple of hours, if that. Some of the reporters in the press pit seemed to feel the same way.

“Chief Locke! What about reports of eight missing persons cases being filed at your precinct over the last nine hours?” One local news reporter blurted out as soon as the chief’s eyes flickered her way. She was tall and young looking, but her expression was serious, determined. “Can you confirm or deny that these missing people have any connection to the murders—?”

“No, not at this time. We’re devoting our manpower to the hunt for Isaiah Martin and keeping our citizens safe.” The chief cut her off resolutely, to Abby’s surprise.

Again, her gaze flickered toward Jacoby in confusion, but he kept his eyes front, ignoring her. Okay. He said she’d get answers soon. She had to wait.

The press pit exploded with questions. The buzz and hum of their voices grew as they all vied for his attention, cameras flashing and hands shooting into the air.

_“What about the presence of the F.B.I.? Sir, has this become a federal case?_

_“Do you anticipate more killings? Is that why you’ve issued the curfew, sir?”_

_“Can we expect a statement from Alderman Branch?”_

_“Was there a note, written by the suspect, Isaiah Martin, found at the crime scene? Will the department release the contents of that note?”_

And on and on. He answered some. He stayed quiet on others.

Finally, he called the conference to a close, instructing them to sit tight until they had more information (though not giving them any definitive answers on when that would be). The chief glanced in her and Jacoby’s direction before turning and leaving the podium. Jacoby gestured that they follow him, and Abbie let him lead the way, staying close on his heels. As they passed the officers and staff that lived and worked here, she caught the blatantly curious, even suspicious glances they were giving them—especially her. She didn’t know how much they knew about the case, or her, but the way they were looking at her as she followed Jacoby into the police station made her feel like she was wearing a chicken costume or something. She felt exposed, like she stuck out as an outsider, even though she was a cop just like them. She was used to blending in, being the one doing the observing, but as they walked through the building towards the chief’s office, she felt every pair of eyes following them.

She held her head up high and squared her shoulders, her face a mask of professional stoicism. They wouldn’t see her nervous or unsure. She was a damned good cop, they needed her, and she _did_ belong there. Or so she kept telling herself over and over again as she marched into the chief’s office. He closed the door behind her, having held it open for her and Jacoby, and the intense scrutiny was cut off. Finally she felt like she could relax just a bit, without a building full of cops staring her down.

That was until Chief Locke stepped slowly around her. He stopped just adjacent to her in his dimly lit office. He was a tall, big man. His wavy hair was attached to what she could see was a huge head, being this close to him. His pale, tired blue eyes observed her with some sort of stoic malice. As though he’d resigned himself to the situation at hand being what it was, but still held a great deal of resentment toward her for…what? Finally, she fully met his gaze. Did he actually think all this shit was _her_ fault?

“So…” he grunted, staring hard at her. “This must be her.”

She blinked, stunned that not only was he clearly feeling some type of way about her, but he wasn’t even addressing her directly. Instead he chose to address Jacoby, his eyes finally peeling away from hers and flickering towards the F.B.I. agent once before he turned to walk around his desk.

“Yeah, this is her.” Jacoby scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get her set up and ready to roll. The sooner we can make contact, the sooner we—”

“Hold it _one goddamned minute_ , she’s not going anywhere _near_ this thing until she’s been vetted by _my_ boys, and—!” Abbie’s jaw dropped. The chief was incensed. Perspiration sprouted to his temples as he heaved himself forward in his squeaky chair and jabbed is fingers in her direction, glaring at Jacoby.

“Pipe down, there, chief!” Jacoby snapped. “This case is _no longer under your supervision_ , what part of that did you miss in your debriefing? You and your _boys_ are here for _optics_ , GOT IT?!”

Abbie clenched her jaw, clamping down on her urge to call a motherfucking _time out_. Instead, she took a deep breath and cleared her throat. They both turned to glare at her. She ignored the hostility in the chief’s eyes and the exasperation in Jacoby’s and stepped forward, around one of the shabby chairs in front of the chief’s desk.

“I’m here because I know this guy, chief.”

He scoffed loudly, grinding his jaw.

“And I know you think I was soft on him. Think I’m biased? Think I did him more harm than good. You think…it’s my fault he went off the deep end. Am I getting warmer?”

He stared up at her, his eyes pale and shining in the faint streaks of sunlight that were able to escape the clutches of his dusty, closed blinds. He had smoked a cigarette in here recently. The hazy coils of fading smoke and the faint smell of the burning tobacco still lingered, coating the stale air. This dude was stressed. She had to get his guard down. “Well, you’re right. I tried to save him. I thought I could change him. And then…” Abbie swallowed hard and stood straighter, letting the chief see the regret in her eyes. “Then I forgot him. And now, because of my mistake, because of my neglect, he’s out there killing people.”

The chief sat back slowly in his chair now, not taking his eyes off of her. He crossed his arms, his expression softening the tiniest bit. He waited for her to continue.

“So I’m here to _stop_ _him_. I owe him that. I owe the families of the people he murdered some justice. I owe it to the people he’s taken to find a way to save them. I’ll do whatever you need in order to see it done. And we are _wasting time_ right now. You can hate me if you want to, but can we get a move on while you do it?”

“Finally, someone in this joint makes some sense,” Jacoby muttered, wiping the top of his balding head.

The chief stared hard at her for a moment longer before relenting, gesturing for them both to sit. “The city’s on lockdown because he took a hell of a lot more than eight people,” he uttered gravely, his eyes flickering from hers to Jacoby’s and back again.

“How many…?” Abbie dared to ask.

“Try over fifty. We don’t know how he did it. We don’t know _why_ he did it. And we don’t know where he has them.” The room felt as though an invisible weight was being lowered onto it, slowly, as he spoke. “That phone call this morning has been the best lead we’ve gotten all week. The press are like vultures, constantly henpecking us for information. We ain’t got diddly squat. But _you_.” He pointed a finger at her from the hand that rested on his desk, that same wonder flashing in his eyes that she’d seen in Jacoby’s in the helicopter. “You. _You’re_ the one he asked for. So you’re gonna get us answers.”

“You want me to talk to him.” Abbie confirmed quietly.

Jacoby leaned forward in his seat, rubbing his hands together, turning his head to look at her. “He’s got fifty people, sweetheart. Somewhere in this city. He says if he don’t get you…well...”

He made a slicing gesture across his neck and grinned at her. He was such an oddball. “And you didn’t think the press needed to know this? Shouldn’t you be conducting a manhunt?”

“We don’t want a panic, Mills.” Jacoby shook his head. “And that’s another of his conditions. He talks to you first, he won’t budge on a goddamned thing until that happens.” He took a look at his watch.

“Which reminds me, it’s almost show time again. He’s due to give us a ring pretty soon. I guarantee you he knows you’re here.”

Abbie frowned at him as he stood up from his seat. “You know you can’t keep those hostages a secret for much longer. The press isn’t stupid and their families won’t be silent. And this all feels way too elaborate. We’re missing something. He wants attention, if he can’t get it through the press…you might want to think about evacuating parts of the city.”

“We agree, Mills.” To her surprise, the chief was nodding, his expression now much more conciliatory than before. “Which is why the feds are hoping you’ll talk him into letting us do exactly that.”

“Not to mention get him to clue us in on whatever you think we’re missing.” Jacoby added. He winked at her now. “Time to work that hunch, kid.”

It was her turn to scoff. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to pull that off?”

The chief shrugged. “You said you knew him. You said you would do whatever it takes to save lives. Prove it.”

She looked between both men, who now seemed to be on the same side all of a sudden, challenging her to prove herself to them. Typical. She nodded and stood up, understanding that she was dismissed from the chief’s office.

“We got ourselves a little war room set up down this way,” Jacoby was saying pretty casually for someone who’d just dropped a bomb in her lap. She would never stop being stunned by his audacity, it seemed.

As they made their way back through the station, Abbie again felt the heavy weight of eyes following her. Although this time, looking around, she found the officers and staff a bit more used to her moving among them.

They all seemed to be aware of her, but now they were refusing to give her their attention. Great. Now that she had officially been assigned to the case, were they gonna pull that ‘this is our turf’ bullshit and make things difficult for her by being uncooperative and chilly towards her?

She still felt eyes on her as she followed Jacoby, and looked around again, searching for that one asshole who’d be glaring at her from the bull pin of officers’ desks they were weaving through. It was definitely going to be like high school all over again, when everyone purposefully ignored the new kid in gym glass. They were definitely ignoring her now.

They were about to clear the bull pin when, confusingly, Abbie felt the eyes and the chill completely engulf her. She looked straight ahead, goose bumps crawling up her neck, prickling her scalp. There was a little boy sitting on a bench near the processing area, talking to himself.

Jacoby had turned the corner already and kept moving, not noticing the boy, but Abbie slowed to a stop. The cold grip of unease still held her as she realized that he was looking up into the corner, near the ceiling. Talking.

“No, my name’s Boyd.” The boy was saying softly, almost sadly. “My mom’s in the room with the policeman.” He was looking up into the corner, pausing, listening, and answering. “No, _my_ name is _Boyd_. B…o…y…of course I can spell ‘Jeremy’. But that’s not my name. I dunno…haven’t seen him. What’s he look like?”

Abbie’s heart froze. Did he just say Jeremy? Who was this kid talking to? There was nothing particularly odd about a kid talking to himself, she supposed. But in the middle of a police station? Staring at the ceiling? And the name Jeremy…?

Abbie stepped forward cautiously and knelt in front of the boy. “Hey.” She greeted him softly. “It’s okay, I’m a police officer, see?” She showed him her badge. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions, is that okay?” He had turned back to the corner of the ceiling, but she knew he was listening to her. “Who are you talking to?”

He slowly turned to look down at her again, clutching his red hoodie in his arms against his chin. He couldn’t have been any more than six or seven. He shook his head sharply. “Nobody.”

“Are you sure?” He nodded, though he glanced up at that corner again. Abbie turned to follow his gaze. There was nothing up there. And yet Abbie felt that feeling of eyes on her again as she stared up into the corner. It was the oddest feeling. An acute, searing _awareness_. As though there was a presence there she could feel, but couldn’t see. And it wasn’t an empty presence. There was something really unpleasant about it. Something dark. Something sinister. Something desperate and cold. She pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the boy again, ripping her eyes from the empty ceiling corner. “What’s your name?”

Jacoby had come back for her, but he softened at the sight of the kid. He stood aside, watching them quietly.

“Boyd.”

Abbie smiled reassuringly at him. “Your mom’s talking to some officers?”

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

“What happened, Boyd?”

Boyd hesitated, but sighed and rubbed at his wet eyes. “We can’t find my dad. He left for work the day before yesterday and didn’t come back.”

Abbie exchanged looks with Jacoby. She squeezed Boyd’s arm and sighed. “We’re going to find your dad. I promise.”

“Please, ma’am? My mom’s real, real sad. Like the lady…” He had whispered that last part, his innocent brown eyes growing large and round. He looked frightened.

“What lady, Boyd?”

His eyes flickered to the ceiling corner and back to Abbie’s face. “The lady with the red hair. Over there.”

She suddenly felt like she’d been doused in ice-cold water. “She has red hair?”

He nodded again, clutching his hoodie, hiding his face as he spoke. Abbie felt the eyes on her, felt the malice seeping into the air, forming a thick knot in her throat. “She says she can’t find her son, like my dad. She keeps calling me Jeremy. Make her go away…”

Abbie stared at him, truly disturbed by what she was hearing. Jacoby was becoming impatient, and confused by what the kid was saying. She ignored him, turning to look up at the ceiling again. She only saw the wall and the shadows. Nothing else. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off the spot. She couldn’t help that feeling in her gut—Katrina was there, staring back at her.

“I’ve got a friend,” she said to the boy, as they both stared up into the corner now. “He’s doing everything he can to make her go away. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

(Ichabod.)

 

 

On the way through the tunnels, he explained to Jenny what Abbie had told him about the case being even stranger than they initially thought.

“Demons?” Jenny repeated skeptically from behind him. “And what, we believe him? The guy just did a stint in Tarrytown, you said, right? How do we know he’s not just a whack job?”

“We don’t.” He uttered tersely, turning his head only slightly as he charged forward.

The dim torchlights lining the old walls cast sidelong shadows of them as they made their way to the archive hall. He didn’t wish to dwell on the alarming possibilities that lay in wait, a curse over them, and this sudden, mysterious case snatching Abbie away from him. She faced unknown dangers at every turn, and _he_ _could not be at her side_. He didn’t wish to speak much at the moment. He needed to focus. He had to find the clue that would save them—save _her_. And then he had to go to her. That was his mission. His singular purpose, as he stalked the path to the archive hall with Jenny close on his heels.

He couldn’t help himself from offering Jenny further explanation, however: “But she has determined to stop him, and we cannot dissuade her…” he trailed off, not wishing to voice the chance that she’d be harmed by naught more than a vengeful spirit. Caused by _his deed_. He was angry with himself, even though he knew he had no choice in killing Katrina, for allowing any of it to happen this way. He should’ve done something _more_ ; tried _harder_ to save them all, and somehow… _and somehow **what** , Ichabod_, he scolded himself harshly. _Somehow break your marital vows with your wife and leave her for your partner? Live happily ever after in Netflix-filled bliss?_

His ire served as adrenaline as they finally crossed into the archive hall and found Frank Irving there, reading a book with his feet propped against a table.

He didn’t look up as Ichabod stormed past him, headed straight for the shelf where he remembered having stored Jenny’s library books the last time he’d perused them. “Miss Jenny, the Grimoire is in my desk, there. Top drawer on your right.” He said over his shoulder, already plucking the book he’d been searching for from the shelf.

He looked down at it…the book about dreams…but something changed his mind. He looked up at the shelf again, and found the one about hauntings. Ghosts. Spirits. Echoes of ‘evils and longings’, he remembered it saying. His gut told him to choose this account instead, replacing the dream book and pulling the haunting book down from the shelf.

“‘Good morrow’ to you too, Crane.” Frank muttered, closing his own book (a biography of Alexandre Dumas) and rolling his eyes over to where Ichabod glanced distractedly his way. When Ichabod only gestured in greeting, opening _‘Mysteries of the Unknown: Hauntings’_ , Frank sighed in Jenny’s direction.

Ichabod could hear that she was rummaging around in his desk as he’d asked, looking for the Grand Grimoire, but she answered Frank as she did so. “Okay, the short story: Katrina’s spirit pretty much put a curse on us, using some snake that bursts into flames and leaves a bible passage behind in the burn residue.”

Ichabod was already reading, falling into the world being created for him within the text. He faintly heard Frank sing: “Okaaaay…” and then Jenny launch into the ‘long story’. But Ichabod tuned them out, immersing himself in the book, narrating for himself in his mind. The pictures in the book came alive for him in flickering slow motion, a sinister fairy tale:

_‘Standing in mute witness to the passions and intrigues of generations they have sheltered, certain houses harbor the shades of their own pasts. Along the hallways and battlements of ancient, windswept castles, in the musty gloom of fog-shrouded mansions…old wrongs and evils and longings seem not to die…but to cling like mist to the cold stones that saw their origins…’ *****_

Ichabod turned the page, engrossed:

_‘Ghosts, they say, are the whisper-soft echoes of those evils and longings. Legends tell of specters of all forms, energies of all strengths, haunting the halls of mansions and castles and moors and forests and mountains and deserts alike…repeating their tragic tales over and over again._

_‘And some…they say…become so desperate to be heard, to be rescued from their torment, that they shatter the boundary between the living realm and their own. The following are tales of hauntings far and wide. Tales of vengeance, sorrow, and love. Of spirits, and the evils and longings that trapped them in vengeful repetition.’_

He remembered, again, why he chose this book instead. One such of these tales in particular floated to the surface of his mind: _‘The Queen’s Handmaiden’._ He flipped to that page; the story of the queen who fell in love, and whose lover betrayed her. The queen who returned in a dream…

_‘Deep in the desert, in the territory of the most powerful clan of the land, the king’s wife lay dying in her royal kraal, surrounded by her servants. Her mother and sister were there, along with her faithful advisor—an ageless witch known only as Baba. She was as black as tar, so shriveled she looked hollow, with hair like burnt straw and eerie white eyes. She always carried a large black snake, letting it slither and crawl all over her, sometimes holding it in her arms like a child. She looked on, muttering incantations of protection and guidance into the spirit realm for her beloved queen._

_‘There was one glaring absence: The queen’s most prized servant. This servant, who’d been held in high regard and considered a dear friend by the queen, had betrayed her. Fled the territory, into the desert, with the queen’s lover. As she lay dying, her heart so broken she had lost the will to live, the servants wailed and wept and screamed at her bedside._

_‘The queen beckoned to Baba, and the old witch moved forward stiffly. The servants wailed, and the queen beseeched the conjurer to avenge her. “Baba…” she whispered. “Make them suffer. Make them regret me, Baba. Please.”_

_‘The witch made sure this was indeed the queen’s dying wish, knowing that such sorrow and hatred would surely damn her spirit to remain trapped on earth. But as the servants’ wailing grew louder and more desperate, the queen’s last words confirmed it. Then she slipped away, and Baba cast a curse passed down from her ancestors; blood magic only known to exist now as scrawling in her book of spells. She whispered to her pet and the slithering thing reared its head—biting her on the hand. The servants wailed._

_‘The witch licked the blood from her wound and cast the curse.’_

Ichabod’s heart thumped in his chest. He paused his reading, swallowing hard. He remembered skimming through this story. He felt as if he was actually in a sweltering kraal in the African desert, listening to the sorrowful wailing of the queen’s servants, glimpsing the old witch’s terrifying white orbs in the shadows. He had an idea of what was coming next.

“Hey, Crane. Found something.” Jenny was beside him suddenly. She held the Grimoire out to him, pointing out a drawing in one of the last pages of the book. Ichabod leaned forward abruptly, setting aside the library book and taking the Grimoire from Jenny to examine it. It was a drawing of a pentagram, inscribed in blood. In the center of the pentagram was a black viper with green eyes, its fangs exposed. It was wreathed in flame.

The inscription below it was also written in blood, and it was in Coptic. “I don’t know what it says, but it looks exactly like what you described from your dream, don’t you think?” Jenny said softly.

Ichabod nodded. “It’s Coptic. It says ‘the vengeful serpent’.”

“Yeah?” Jenny scoffed. “Jackpot. I’m gonna keep reading. You find anything?”

“Yes—almost.” Ichabod ripped his attention from Jenny, who perched next to Frank at the opposite table from him. He continued his reading.

_‘Though the lover and the servant found safety, and slowly began their life together in a peaceful village, they did not find it for long. They concealed their identities and allowed their love to bloom, planning a family and life free of the king’s army and the queen’s greed and lust._

_‘Shortly after their escape, the lover began to have dreams and experience visions of the queen. He would chase her ghostly specter as it stalked the darkness of the village, in the brush, or by the river that passed through their neutral territory. He kept his dreams from his beloved, and the servant knew nothing of his fears until one day she came upon an enormous viper while picking in the brush._

_‘She heard the wailing of the kraal full of grieving servants; a crescendo in the brush; though there was no one there. The snake disappeared and she ran into her lover’s arms._

_‘That night, the lover dreamed of the dead queen yet again. And in his dream, he chased her, catching her finally, and stabbing her over and over again in the brush with a short spear. When he woke, covered in blood, he realized that it was his beloved in his arms, stabbed to death by his own hand.’_

Ichabod felt hot tears sting his vision, but he wiped them away harshly and forced himself to keep reading. Dreams. It had been the dreams in this story he was remembering. He’d only skimmed it before, but that part stuck out, because at the time his haunting dreams of Katrina had still been fresh in his mind.

_‘Driven mad with grief, the lover drowned himself in the river, or so the legend tells it. Some say his body was never found, only his footsteps. Some say the queen came back to take him to his watery grave. The living shall never know for sure._

_‘What is known, passed down from generation to generation, is that Baba brought back the queen’s spirit to avenge her broken heart. And to this day, she is said to still wander the brush, the passage of time and evolution of her kingdom unknown to her…only her broken heart and lust for vengeance her companions in her eternal torment.’_

“Holy shit.” Jenny interrupted his reading again. “Okay—get a load of this, you guys.” Ichabod closed his book, marking his place with his finger, shaking off the emotional effects of the story, and joined Jenny and Frank at their table. She placed the Grimoire flat on the table for them all to see. “Says here? The vengeful serpent is the deadliest curse ever known. I-fucking-E? It’s unstoppable.”

Dread seized Ichabod by the heart, and he choked out: “That cannot be. What else is there?” He snatched the book from the table and began to read for himself.

Jenny shook her head slowly, the shock still lingering on her face. “Jenny, what else?” Frank prompted.

She swallowed, speaking as Ichabod read. “Um…it’s a stolen curse. It’s ancient. It was supposed to have died out with some African witchdoctor, she was said to be the last of her coven.”

“Baba…” Ichabod uttered, the clues clicking into place.

Jenny frowned. “Yeah, but why do you sound like you knew that already?”

“Your library books have proven most illuminating,” Ichabod said, sparing her an encouraging glance as he continued reading what she’d already gone over in the Grimoire. Jenny rightly took his meaning and reached for the library book, opening it up to his saved page.

“Okay, someone start saying something that _isn’t_ confusing.” Frank interjected.

“It doesn’t say unstoppable. It merely reports that this coven couldn’t decipher it in its entirety. Something stopped them. Look, here.” He pointed out the inscription to Frank, as Jenny engrossed herself in the story Ichabod had just been reading. “They managed to enact it, but found no means of reversing it. That doesn’t mean that one does not exist.”

Jenny broke away from her reading, exchanging looks with Frank. “That’s a stretch, man. Even for you.” Frank muttered almost as though he hated saying it.

Ichabod balked, slamming the book on the table. “We have more than enough information here! Look! The curse has been diluted to fit their practices. They translated it thusly: a sample of hair or blood from the victim. The incantation, here. The appearance of the snake, the inscription of ash…all of it! Right there!”

“But nothing about _reversing it_ , Crane. Or what it does! Hell, depending on the conjurer, it could be anything!” Jenny argued right back. And she lifted the library book to show him. “And according to this? A scorned woman is just about the most vengeful bitch there is. That means there’s some nasty shit in store for you and Abbie, am I right? This Baba chick? She’s a piece of work.”

“She is indeed a ‘piece of work’, but she may also be the clue that leads us to reversing this curse.” Ichabod insisted through clenched teeth. He stood rigidly, his hands held together behind his back.

“We’re listening, Crane.” Frank offered.

“Her _tribe_ , don’t you see? This story stood out to me for reasons I could not explain, but I _remembered it_.” He held up a finger at them, his eyes sparkling. “We know how the curse is enacted, and we know where to look to trace its origins. If we can do that…”

“We can find the missing piece.” Jenny supplied, finally cottoning on. Ichabod grinned at her gratefully. “Find the last known whereabouts of this book...”

“Maybe we can even find some living relatives.” Frank spoke up thoughtfully. “Covens pass this shit down through the generations, don’t they? Hell, even Katrina and Henry knew that.”

“Exactly.” Ichabod agreed.

They began their search. Jenny and Irving began looking through the Internet, as Ichabod had zero patience for dealing with some of the things about using a computer he had yet to master. For his part, he searched the archives manually. He found absorbing himself in the smell of the pages and the weight of the books served to calm him down. As he flipped through reference books on Ancient Egypt and African folklore, searching for any references to the witch Baba, he remembered something Abbie said and stopped what he was doing.

“Press conference…” Jenny looked up from her laptop, frowning at his muttering. Ichabod set his book aside and strode over to the lounging area, where Frank had set up a television a month ago. “How do I project the news on this? It’s of a different make than the one in the cabin.”

Jenny came over to help him.

He watched her turn on the television and search through channels, though he supplied: “The Leftenant mentioned that she was waiting for a press conference concerning her case. I’m hoping we might be able to find some rebroadcast of it…”

“Found it.” Jenny announced, putting the remote down on the coffee table. Frank came to join them and they all stood crowded around the TV, watching a stern-looking man addressing the press on a twenty-four hour, nationwide news channel.

Ichabod’s heart leapt to life when he noticed a short glimpse of Abbie standing at attention amongst a group of men—police offers and F.B.I. agents, Ichabod guessed. His eyes became glued to the screen as he studied what little of her face he could see. She looked anxious. She was poised, but he could read her like no other. She hadn’t been telling him the entire truth over the phone, he could see. She wasn’t as confident about all of this as she’d been letting on.

He wanted, more than anything, to be standing at her side. Or to not have her there at all. He wanted— _needed_ —her _here_ , in this room, pouring over books with him and talking him through his theories. He blinked rapidly as that brief glimpse of her was snatched away, and the news program focused on a more zoomed-in shot of the police chief as he spoke.

“This man is armed and dangerous…until he is apprehended, we’re asking people to stay in their homes after seven-pm…”

They all exchanged glances and the program switched back to the anchor. “That was Chester Police Chief Allen Locke declaring a citywide curfew in the wake of a string of heinous murders, all committed by one man. Stay with us for more on this riveting case—including confirmed involvement of the F.B.I. Is this a federal murder case, and what impact will that have on the investigation? Next.”

“Don’t freak out, Icky…” Jenny cautioned. “A curfew sounds bad, but it’s probably actually _good_. It means Abbie’s safer, don’t you think?”

Ichabod had been tempted to scold her yet again that he had no desire to keep that ‘nickname’, but her words got through to him and he relented, nodding. “Perhaps you are right, Jenny. I must…” he took a deep breath and straightened his posture, “…remember that, like you and Captain Reyes were good enough to point out, Abbie can take care of herself. And, a curfew is certainly something I’d suggest, under the circumstances.”

Jenny touched his arm reassuringly. “It’s okay that you’re worried about her. So am I, you have no idea. But we gotta keep channeling it into finding this spell book, okay?”

“Most eagerly.” Ichabod agreed, and without hesitation they returned to their work.

“GOT IT! I’m a genius!” Frank announced four hours later. Ichabod and Jenny dropped what they were doing and rushed to crowd around him and Jenny’s laptop. He read from public records he’d found:

“Eunice Toussaint Sinclair! Family name formerly _just_ Toussaint back when the town was just a settlement. The great-great-great-great granddaughter of an African slave, _Jacqueline_ Toussaint, daughter of plantation nursemaid and sometimes spiritual healer _Montaque_ Toussaint…”

Jenny sighed in exasperation as Frank took a deep breath, still gunning through the long list of descendants he’d traced to who she _hoped_ would be Baba the witch, or she would have to smack him.

“Who, legend has it, is the niece of the blood magic witch _also_ _known as BABA!_ Her time was in both incarnations of a hugely powerful clan before the British disbanded it in the early seventeen hundreds. But check _this_ out…” He switched tabs in the browser (a trick that still caught Ichabod off-guard, no matter how many times he saw it done) and they were now looking at an old series of photographs of an _absolutely_ _ancient_ looking book. Frank pointed confidently at the image that showed the book in the most detail. “The Book of the Dead. That’s where she got all her power from. It was passed down to her family from the _original_ coven, and I mean the very first one. Before Africa was Africa and the Pyramids were nothing but mounds of dust. That baby is a Grimoire. Admit it: I’m some kind of hacker genius.”

“Slow your roll, Neo. What do you mean ‘ _a_ Grimoire’?” Jenny cautioned, her curved brows diving into a deep frown as she studied the images on the screen.

“It says here: ‘one of only nine Grimoires known in existence.’” Frank read, shrugging as if that was that. “Gotta love these goth kids, they _really_ do their homework on this stuff. I’m telling you—blogs. Blogs are our friends.”

“Of course…” Ichabod uttered, his eyes glued to the screen. “Covens originate from all manner of times, from all corners of the world. _Of course_ there are more.”

How blind he’d been to focus solely on Katrina’s origins, on her version of magic. Blood magic or elemental magic, it was all some version of another, older power. All borrowed, passed down, stolen, diluted, enhanced or twisted...secrets as old as these were like wells that never ended. The deeper you looked, the darker and more overwhelming the truth.

Ichabod pointed to his findings. “I also found reference to a ‘book of the dead’, tracing the Coptic inscriptions from the Grimoire back to an Egyptian tomb. A great warlord was buried with it. It is said he believed he could use it to gain power in the spirit realm.” He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace, thinking. “A coven was mentioned…a coven that wrote the book in blood, pouring all their darkest magic inside it.”

“So this is the book that ended up in Baba’s family.” Jenny concluded for him.

Ichabod thumbed his phone in his pocket, trying not to focus on the fact that he hadn’t heard from Abbie in hours. “Yes, it would seem. Annnd---!” It was his turn to show off, inspired by Frank’s theatrics. The lanky Witness strode to his research corner at his desk and retrieved his notes. “The Vengeful Serpent has shown up, in various forms with various outcomes, in a number of legends I’ve found.”

“Any of them mention how to reverse it?” Jenny asked, hopeful.

Ichabod sighed. “No.” He looked up at Frank. “Where is the book now? Or this woman, this Miss Toussaint?”

“Weelllll…she’s dead. But!” He held up his hands before anyone could say anything. “Found a little write-up in a local paper. She was quite a community staple. She left her house to a dear friend of hers, Yolanda Beaumont. Turned it into a candle shop about eight years ago. The usual tourist-y crap, incense, t-shirts, magnets…antiques.”

“Antiques, eh?” Jenny crossed her arms, impressed finally. “Well, how about that. And, how dear a friend was Miss Beaumont?” Ichabod could see the theories in Jenny’s eyes turning, but he couldn’t guess what she was getting at just yet.

“They lived together. For decades.” Frank and Jenny had inscrutable looks on their faces, momentarily distracting Ichabod.

“ _Where_ did they live together?” He asked, causing them to break their eye contact.

Frank held up a finger and turned back to the laptop, again switching to another of those tab things, where he was apparently running an illegal search of the police database using Abbie’s password. Ichabod frowned on this, because he knew how Abbie valued her integrity and her duty to abide by the law unless absolutely necessary. However—he had determined to find an answer to this mystery and bring her home. If that meant apologizing to her later for this, so be it.

“Just outside of Shreveport, Louisiana. Address is 225 Randolph Road, same as the candle shop, I guess she lives there.” Frank confirmed, turning back to face them, crossing his arms.

They all met each other’s gazes in turn. Jenny stared at Ichabod, as if to ask _‘are you sure?’_ and he stared right back. There was no question. They were going. It was their only lead; their only way to find out how to reverse Katrina’s curse. She blinked in acquiescence and sighed.

“Alright, I’ll rustle up some seats on the next flight to Shreveport.”

Ichabod nodded, grateful, and immediately plucked his cell phone from his pocket, not wishing to wait a second longer before calling Abbie.

 

* * *

 

 

(Leena.)

 

 

Captain Leena Reyes sat in her office, tapping her fingers on her desk, thinking.

Ichabod Crane bothered her. On the surface, he seemed like an alright guy, he had proven to be helpful enough in the past for certain. But there was something about him that, to her, always seemed…off. He was odd. Oddly devoid of any sort of personal life; oddly devoted to Abbie Mills; oddly audacious with _her_ , someone who could very easily look much deeper into his past and find lord knows what. Yes, there was something that bothered the hell out of her about Ichabod Crane. But it wasn’t just that his ubiquity got on her nerves. It was that odd shit happened whenever he was around. Odd shit that he dragged her best lieutenant into on a regular basis.

What the hell did they get up to in those archives? She left well enough alone because Abbie never gave her a reason to distrust her. But Ichabod Crane, and this weird knack he had for conjuring inexplicable shit in his wake, bothered her.

So did this supposed plot to do harm to Mills that he couldn’t produce evidence of.

Leena frowned, leaning forward in her chair, her fingers tapping harder as she thought back to what that rookie told her. Abbie had some kind of accident just before arriving here. She stood up, walking briskly around her desk and tossing open the door, stepping out a bit to scan the bull pin for Jake Morrison.

“Morrison! My office, now.” She called when she spotted him leaning over at his desk, filling out paperwork. He stood up immediately and came to her. She almost smirked. The rookies were always so damned eager. Good. He’d do as she asked, and he’d keep quiet about it.

“Ma’am?” He sort of gulped as she stepped aside to let him in. She gestured toward the chair in front of the desk as she closed the door behind her.

“Have a seat. And relax, Morrison, you’re not in trouble.”

He nodded and sat, but he didn’t relax. _Eager **and** uptight…some things never change_ , she thought as she came around to lean against her desk. She folded her arms and squinted at him. “You reported when you got a twenty on Mills earlier that she’d been in some kind of traffic accident?”

“Yes ma’am, and I was just filling out the report just now. I know I should have stayed at the scene, but you put out an A.P.B. and—” he said in one breath, before she raised her hands in gesture that he slow the hell down.

“Whoa, kid, catch your breath, this isn’t an interrogation. I just want to know more details about the accident, that’s all.”

“Oh.” He took another deep breath and visibly calmed himself. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She waved it off. “It’s okay, go on.”

“Uh…I was grabbing coffee with Officer Rhodes--”

“Skip to the accident, Morrison.” Leena sighed, her patience slipping.

“R-right, I looked up when I heard honking, and she’d fallen out of her car right across the street.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Leena leaned forward, intrigued.

“I’m not too sure. I saw…” He paused, unsure of himself, but didn’t waste much time continuing, thankfully. “I saw some sort of flame _push_ her out. At least, that’s what it looked like? It happened so fast. I heard the honking, I looked over, and she was…on the ground. It was the strangest thing.”

She was silent for a long moment, standing up to walk slowly around her desk—head down, thinking. “Where’d you say this happened, Jake?”

“Just down the street, a few minutes from here. Down on Lennox, across the street from the Starbucks.”

She looked out through her blinds, her hands on her hips. “There’s a traffic cam on that corner, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, there is.” The kid confirmed, comprehension in his voice.

“See if you can get me that footage before the end of the day.”

“I’m on it.”

She turned to look at him finally, indicating that he was dismissed. “And Morrison? Keep it between us for now, we clear?”

He frowned again, but she wasn’t going to go into anything unless she had something else to go on. His only job right now was to get her that footage. “Crystal, ma’am.”

He left and she went back to sitting at her desk, tapping her fingers. Thinking. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but if the kid saw things right, some odd shit was going down. And it had to do with Ichabod Crane, she was sure of it. Her gut was telling her there was something more to this that she was missing. Either she’d find something that proved Crane’s supposed threat herself, or she would find…well, some other odd shit.

 She was sure of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMING UP...
> 
> As they chase down leads on the hunt to solve their separate cases--clues lead to more secrets, dreams become more terrifying, longing becomes more torturous, and finally Ichabod has had enough. What he does next will either surely doom them...or save them.
> 
>  
> 
> \----  
> *A real passage taken from a real book, really titled "Mysteries of the Unknown: Hauntings". It's a great read! Everything else, I made up :)


	6. bupkiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell her the kid has found his purpose.

 

> _you shimmy-shook my boat_  
>  _leaving me stranded all in love on my own_  
> 

-Closer, Kings of Leon

 

* * *

 

 

 

(Ichabod.)

 

“We’ve traced the origins of the curse to an ancient spell book, older than Katrina’s coven. It was once known as the ‘Book of the Dead’.” Ichabod explained in a low voice, running his hand through his hair. “As it happens, it is one of nine Grimoires known to exist. Katrina’s book of blood magic may not even be as powerful as this one. We are not certain yet, but the implications are…troubling.”

Abbie was silent as he told her of the candle shop, the last known relative of the witch, Baba, and that they planned to fly to Shreveport to investigate further. He heard the rustling of books and the murmur of voices as Jenny and Frank continued behind him, but he tuned them out to focus on Abbie’s breathing, being funneled through his smart phone.

He wished to see her face. He wished that she could come with him—their separate cases were putting even more distance between them and he did not like it. But he knew they had no choice; they had to try to locate the book, to unravel the how’s and the why’s, and Abbie had to uphold her duty. These things he knew, and perhaps he could accept without hesitation in older days, but today he was madly in love and desperately searching for a way to bring them closer together. That these circumstances had set them apart, on separate paths with unforeseen dangers at any turn, _now_ …it was a hefty tax on his restraint. He was filling her in, but he was thinking _I love you, I need you here,_ over and over.

“Crane?” Abbie spoke. He could confidently guess her current expression. He had most likely trailed off, becoming distracted by his thoughts. This did not bode well for his ability to hide his feelings for much longer.

“Yes. Apologies.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve only a handful of clues, and one possible lead. But, Leftenant, _I promise you_ …we will find the answer. I will find a way to reverse this curse if it’s the last thing I do.”

He paused, glancing around to make certain Frank and Jenny were otherwise occupied, before continuing:

“And then I will join you, and help you bring this Isaiah Martin to justice.”

“Crane…” he could hear the resistance in her voice, but he pressed on.

“Abbie, _we are partners_ , _of course_ I am coming to you.” He winced at the urgency in his own voice, but straightened his posture as an afterthought. She was being stubborn.

“Look, you need to understand, there’s nothing I want more right now, but…” her voice wavered (and her words gave him a glimmer of hope) before she continued. “You actually can’t. I spoke to Isaiah.”

He blinked, stunned. He couldn’t think of a response, so he waited for her to go on.

“He’s really sick, Crane.” Abbie’s voice was now deep with something he couldn’t peg, and it worried him. “He has fifty people, maybe more, locked away somewhere. He’s planning something…scary. He’s watching every move we make and we have no idea where he is.”

“Good lord.” Ichabod gulped now, completely forgetting about Jenny and Frank, stepping further into the corner behind the television to hear her better.

She scoffed, her sarcastic attitude suggesting to him that she was just as alarmed as he was—and attempting to hide it. “Yeah. But the best part is that it’s all for _me_. He wants _me_ to find him. In this city. Alone. No backup. Of _any kind_.” She paused for emphasis on her last point. “No Chester P.D., no F.B.I., and no _you_.”

“Me? Specifically?”

“I told you, he knows me; he knows _us_. He’s been watching us.”

“And does he still believe he’s executing demons?”

“Yes. Thing is, _I’m_ not convinced yet. Not with the evidence we have, which is bupkiss. I’m digging deeper, but I need more time.”

“All the more reason for me to come to you as soon as possible.” Ichabod clenched his jaw and gripped his phone tightly, becoming motionless in the corner. “If he knows us so well, he should know that we _always win_ , _together_. No matter the circumstances. I shall simply conceal my arrival.”

“That’s dangerous talk, partner.” She was attempting to lighten the mood, but her voice was unconvincing. She was worried, and there was more she wasn’t telling him.

Ichabod closed his eyes, willing some of his passion to subside. What was he saying? He could not risk putting her in danger by allowing his feelings for her to make him impulsive. But he also could not stand the thought of leaving Abbie to face this daunting task alone. He suddenly didn’t know _what_ to do, and he lowered his head, his hair falling back into place.

“Then tell me what to do, Abbie. I’m afraid…my feelings for you render me useless at the moment.”

His heart thundered in his chest, and he stood mute, refusing to take it back. He was telling the truth. He was asking her what to do, not only about her case, but about his feelings. _Shall you force me to tell you everything, now, with so much danger at hand? Shall I so selfishly burden you with this knowledge at so dark an hour, when you need all your focus and fortitude to stop a madman? Without being able to see your face…_

“Go to Shreveport, Crane.” She said softly. “Find a way to stop Katrina. And believe me…the moment I need you? I’ll call for you. And you better come running.”

“I’ll _fly_.”

She laughed, and he allowed himself a slow smile.

“Good.” Abbie paused, and her _next_ words were like a soft caress that stroked him from his chest to his groin, where it lingered to torture him. His nostrils flared and he reached up to take hold of the shelf in front of him with his free hand, suddenly so gripped with longing that he could feel himself developing a bit of a problem in his trousers at the shyness in her voice alone. “Because…my feelings for you have got me pretty distracted, too…”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He reeled in it, leaning into the shelf, his head down and his manhood aching with need. The rest of the world dropped away and he focused on this moment. Was she saying…?

“You need only ask.” He whispered, toeing the line with the intensity in his voice. “I’ll be there.”

“I promise, I will.” She said back, and he felt the long, hard grip of arousal upon him as he noted that her voice was just as husky as his. His fantasies of her threatened to invade his focus, but he pushed them back.

“Is that Abbie?” And just in time, it seemed. He’d apparently been speaking with Abbie for quite an interlude. Jenny had caught him red-handed, and to his dismay, she snatched his phone away. He turned, exasperated, but realized that he shouldn’t reveal himself to the room just yet. Jenny made her escape as he hastily turned back, pretending to examine the sleeves of the books on the shelf he’d been holding onto for dear life.

“Abbie? Hey—what the hell, you can’t call your sister back but you’ve got time to have phone sex with Crane?”

“Ah—that is _not_ what we—!” Ichabod willed his erection away and went after Jenny, all the blood from his arousal flooding to his cheeks as she dodged him yet again, gesturing for him to pack his things so they could leave.

“Oh pipe down, both of you, it was a _joke_. So what’s going on, sis? Talk to me.”

Ichabod glowered at Jenny as she spoke to Abbie, both of them filling each other in. He resumed packing his things, the books they’d need, the laptop, his wallet and keys—all he needed now was his phone. He memorized the passages pertaining to the Vengeful Serpent in the Grand Grimoire and left in his desk for safekeeping, behind lock and key.

“We’ll let you know when we find anything, promise.” Jenny was saying, her back to him as he helped Frank bring their things to the door. “Love you, Abbie. Be safe.”

She hung up and he softened his demeanor, understanding his oversight in dominating Abbie so selfishly. Jenny was just as worried as he was, and it was yet more proof of how distracted he was that he’d failed to let her speak to her sister herself for a second time since they’d learned of her whereabouts.

“We’ve got about an hour to pack any clothes and crap we need.” Jenny handed him back his phone and they wasted no time heading through the door, down into the tunnels.

She beat him to his apology.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Abbie told me what this creep is putting her through. I know you’re worried. I didn’t mean to interrupt…anything.”

He looked down at her sidelong, deciding to acknowledge her mention of his feelings for Abbie. “No you didn’t…entirely. I’m just finding it difficult, being separated from her. I thought we’d been getting closer, and now…” He sighed hard, shaking off his uncertainty. He moved on through the tunnels. “I know you are also worried for her. We’re perfectly aligned there. But, you are also right that we must surge forward.”

“Right. Deep shit. Still in it.” She nodded resolutely and stared straight ahead, easily matching his pace.

“Indeed.” Ichabod said, taking a liking to that turn of phrase. He might use that one more often. They continued making plans as they took the last turn before they’d finally be able to exit.

“Let’s stay together. Abbie’s is closer, we can stop by the cabin on the way to the airport.” Frank suggested.

“Agreed.” Ichabod and Jenny said over each other. She punched him in the arm. “Jinx.”

He frowned at her third puzzling turn of phrase in less than ten minutes and she laughed, sounding not unlike her sister. Thinking of Abbie again, Ichabod’s gaze became unfocused as he put one foot in front of the other and followed his team through the tunnels. She had confessed that she had feelings for him, he was sure of it. He had felt it, he remembered every nuance of her voice…and the thought of it was very nearly enough to cause yet another swell of arousal. But then the thought that the closer they came together, the further they were being driven physically apart revived his determination to put an end to this ever-deepening mess they were in. So that he could finally be free to show her exactly how he felt.

Shreveport, then.

And…good heavens…his first time ever in an airplane.

 

* * *

 

 

(Abbie.)

 

Abbie hung up with Jenny, shocked at herself.

She’d been on autopilot with her sister, absorbing information and filling Jenny in on what was going on from her side of things. But Abbie couldn’t stop replaying her exchange with Crane over and over in her head. She couldn’t believe what she’d said, or how she’d said it, but at that moment she’d been more honest with herself—and with him—than she’d been in a long, _long_ time. She had even neglected to mention the incident with Boyd, and her very strong impression that he’d been talking to Katrina’s ghost. So distracted was she by the very distinct desire to throw Crane a bone, and see if he’d catch it. It seemed like he had.

The huskiness in his voice as he whispered _‘You need only ask…’_ gave her a slither of desire that made her panties damp and her nipples tingly and hard, begging for his mouth. _His lips._ She could just picture his indigo eyes narrowing as he spoke. Yes, she wanted him. She would no longer lie to herself. It seemed like every damn time she talked to him on the phone today, he managed to unravel her façade just a little bit more. She was tempted to blame Jenny’s happy-go-lucky ass for planting the seed, but she knew that was a copout. She didn’t know why this was happening now, on top of everything, but she knew she couldn’t let it distract her.

Jenny, naturally, took an opportunity to question Abbie during their brief conversation: “So…did I interrupt anything?”

“What?” She exhaled, shifting uncomfortably in her leaning position against the wall of the ladies’ room stall.

“Ugh, don’t play dumb, Abbie. It sounded like you and Crane were, you know, _getting_ somewhere.”

“Jenny, I don’t _believe_ your eavesdropping ass! We were _not_ having phone sex. Not even close.” Abbie hissed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jenny said hastily, “and I won’t say another word about it. I know when not to push—for now. We’ll let you know when we find anything, promise. Love you, Abbie. Be safe.”

She hung up, causing Abbie to bite her tongue, leaving her unable to defend her chaotic thoughts. So much had happened since she’d last spoken to Crane, not five hours ago. Too much for one confusing conversation to handle. She would have to just deal with it. She had things to do, just like they had things to do. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stop hiding in the ladies’ room and get her ass back in there.

When she had pried herself away from the kid, Boyd, totally shaken and distracted, Jacoby had led her through the cavernous, grey, marble police station to their ‘war room’. Abbie was used to the small, brown, worn-in atmosphere of the Sleepy Hollow station—it’s sunlit bull pin and creaky chairs. This place was an echo chamber, full of seemingly identical white men in uniform, marble everywhere, and shadows cast by the pale sunlight that seemed to beam down at them from very tall windows.

When they entered the war room, full of tables and white boards, a bank of computer equipment and monitors, and grim-faced F.B.I. agents, Abbie pushed away her thoughts of Crane and shifted to cop mode again.

“What the hell was that kid going on about?” Jacoby asked her as he led her through the room, not bothering to introduce her to anyone.

She shrugged, not really ready to even attempt explaining it to him. “I don’t know. He’s obviously traumatized,” she hedged, stepping into a small office he’d led her to, watching as he closed the door behind them. “I think he’s the son of one of Isaiah’s hostages.”

“Oh, crap.” Jacoby scoffed, scratching his bald head and taking a seat behind his desk. “Well, ain’t that a bitch. I guess you were right.”

Abbie didn’t bother taking a seat, instead opting to stand by the door, her arms crossed. She shifted on her feet and met Jacoby’s gaze. “Why are you going out on a limb for me, detective?” She blurted out, unable to help her curiosity from betraying her.

He chuckled, adjusting his tie and leaning back in his chair. “Darlin’ you should be focused on how you’re gonna get those hostages back safe and sound…” his smile faded, and he eyed her seriously. “I told you, you’ll get all your answers soon enough. But right now, we got work to do, _capiche_?”

“Understood, the last three times you said it.” She couldn’t help a small chuckle, herself, as she nodded. He was indeed a character. She would have to do as he said, and wait to find out what he was really all about later.

“Very funny.” He gestured for her to step forward. “Okay—you’ll be working with Bergman and Watson. Good agents. Watch out, though, Watson is a bit of a bull. A bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but I’m sure you’ve handled worse in that tiny town you patrol for a living.”

Abbie bit back a retort, instead concentrating on the evidence bag he was opening on his desk. He took out the note Isaiah had written, the one they’d found, that mentioned demons, at the site of Kelly Branch’s death. He handed it to her.

She read it silently through the plastic Ziploc bag they’d sealed it in, imagining his voice in her head.

_‘To whom it may concern,_

_Fear not_

_I am on the hunt_

_For your souls, for your salvation_

_I slay these demons,_

_One by one, and_

_Death by death_

_I avenge thee_

_Tell her I avenge thee_

_Tell her_

_The kid has found his purpose_

_-Isaiah’_

She swallowed hard, her eyes glued to the scrawling signature of his name, _Isaiah_ , right there, plain as day. He had done these things, in her name, and here was the definitive proof. “I uh…” she bit her lip, “I used to call him ‘the kid’ all the time.” She tried for a laugh, but her voice failed her. “My little joke, since we aren’t that far apart in age…try to put him at ease. Make him feel like I was on his side.” She finally looked up at Jacoby, who was studying her patiently. She shrugged. “I treated him like my little brother, you know? I thought it was easier for him that way.”

He leaned forward. “And he _did_ trust you at some point, right Mills?”

She hesitated, but nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good. Then find that trust again. That’s your only job right now.” He gestured to the letter. “Call him ‘the kid’, do whatever it takes.” He sighed. “Captain Reyes pleaded your case, you know. She said you were one of the best young cops she’d ever worked with—hand to god, came right out of her sourpuss mouth!” He laughed, and Abbie shook her head, unsure of what to make of him. He was even more annoying than Rhodes, but somehow she was beginning to trust him, despite his absurdity. “So you better not let her down, alright, darlin’?”

“Sure. If you could do me a favor and can it with the ‘darlin’ stuff. Mills is just fine, thanks.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Mills. It’s your show now.”

There was a sharp knock on the window to the office. They both turned to see a husky agent, with a curly reddish brown beard that gave way to a curly copper mop atop his head. He wore glasses, his face was red, and he was gesturing urgently with his hands—making the ‘phone call’ sign and pointing to Abbie meaningfully.

“Shit—it’s Berg—looks like you’re up, doll.”

Abbie rolled her eyes in his direction as he stood up and walked around his desk. “Okay, so ‘doll’ is out, too. Got it. Yay, feminism. Let’s go.”

Jacoby stepped aside and allowed her to lead the way. Bergman stepped away from the window and gestured that they follow him, adjusting his glasses and surging forward. Abbie followed quickly, her short legs struggling to keep up with his much longer stride. It momentarily reminded her of walking with Crane, and she felt a pang of loneliness just then as she walked briskly through the room of staring F.B.I. agents to the bank of computer equipment near the windows. She shook the feeling off as Bergman started talking.

“It’s him. He knows she’s here,” his eyebrows rose pointedly in Abbie’s direction as his hands hovered over a black telephone sitting on a table in the center of all the equipment. Two other agents stood around, watching her.

“Signal?” Jacoby asked hopefully, his hands on his hips.

Bergman shook his head, his deep voice coated with frustration. “Same thing—dead end. It triangulates and then just kinda spazzes out. He’s not just armed, he’s got _stuff_ , you know what I mean? Like, _high-tech_ stuff, sir.”

“Jesus, FIND HIM!” Jacoby shouted, startling Abbie yet again. The other agents seemed accustomed to his outbursts, however.

Bergman nodded briskly. “Working on it, sir. In the mean time…?” He gestured to the phone.

Jacoby looked over at Abbie. “You ready for this?”

She nodded, steeling herself. She had to be. “Yeah.”

Jacoby rubbed his chin, hesitating, staring at her, before nodding at Bergman. The curly haired agent gently picked up the receiver and handed it slowly to Abbie, who stepped forward and took it from him. Their eyes lingered on each other’s as he stepped away, and she got the impression that the look on his face was that of surprise, but she couldn’t figure out why. She had no time to dwell on it; she pressed the receiver to her ear, knowing they were recording and attempting to trace this call, her heart pounding.

“Isaiah.” She spoke, her voice ringing in her own ears.

“Hello, Abbie.” His voice sounded shockingly benign, innocent, even. She remembered how young he was. Despite the brutal things he’d done, his voice reminded her of the troubled young man she sat and had pie with one rainy morning four years ago. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

She swallowed, aware of the other agents in the room watching her. Isaiah seemed unhurried, however. He sighed softly.

“When I woke up this morning, I prayed I wouldn’t have to destroy another one without you.”

His words sobered her instantly, and her eyes flickered toward Jacoby before she focused again on the monitor on the wall, showing a map, tracing a weak signal. The area of the map kept zooming in every few seconds, seemingly pinpointing the location, except it was starting to slow down.

Abbie licked her lips and forced herself to talk. “You don’t need to destroy any of them, Isaiah. I’m here, like you asked. I can help you out of this.”

Isaiah laughed, and she heard a faint echo. She realized that they were now projecting his voice on speaker, listening to everything they said. A quick look around showed her that all activity had ceased. Everyone was listening, watching. And Chief Locke was in the room now. “Abbie, you’re so brainwashed. Still struggling with that false sense of duty they pump into you day in and day out.” His soft voice grew menacing, though still somehow chillingly calm.

“You’re angry with me, I get it, Isaiah.”

“Oh, I _was_. Yes. For a time. A _long_ time, actually. But not anymore, Abbie.” He sighed deeply again, and the map on the monitor stalled, the red dot blinking, blinking, blinking…where was he? “Now I realize what you wanted from me…what you were trying to show me. But I couldn’t see it! Until now.”

“What are you talking about, Isaiah? What did you realize?”

“I see you, Grace Abigail Mills.” He whispered, forcing a feather-light chill to prick and tingle its way up her spine to the base of her neck. “I’ve been watching you. I know why you chose me to take up arms with you, and I failed you. I failed you!” He growled, causing her to blink rapidly. “I failed you…and now you walk with that unworthy motherfucker Ichabod Crane.”

“What’s Ichabod got to do with this?” She found her voice again, ignoring the looks she was getting around the room. The signal stopped blinking, disappeared, and begin to triangulate all over again—like Bergman had been saying earlier.

Speaking of which, the broad-shouldered agent stamped his foot and grunted. She heard him hiss “See? Fuck.”

“Tell Detective Bergman and Detective Jacoby not to bother.” Isaiah said calmly. “These… _things_ …must be destroyed. But I can’t do it alone, you see? I need you. And you need me.”

“I need you to tell me where you are, Isaiah.” Abbie tried again, watching the map start it’s search again. “You scrambled the signals, how’d you manage that, kid?”

He chuckled. “Aw, come on, Abbie, you know I’m smarter than that.” Her heart sank. “But I love that you tried. Listen, they know my conditions are pretty clear. So I’ll explain to _you_ , now. You want to talk? You come to me.”

“How am I—?” She started, but he hushed her.

“Just look around, Abbie. I know _you’re_ smart, too. This place is full of clues. I’m everywhere. I’m watching you. How do _you_ think I managed, that huh?”

She frowned hard, understanding that he was telling her how to start. “That’s a good question…” she trailed off, thinking.

“Good girl,” he breathed, causing her unease to come slithering back. “We’ll start officially, tomorrow.”

“Christ.” Someone blurted out. Abbie turned to see one of the agents, the only other woman in the room, a tall, lanky white woman with short blonde hair and downturned lips, glaring at the monitors. She gestured angrily at what she was seeing, causing Abbie to whirl around to get a look for herself, forgetting about Isaiah on the phone. “That _cannot_ fucking be right. Bergman, what the _fuck_ man, is that _right?_ ”

“Zip it, Watson!” Jacoby stepped forward to stand next to Abbie, all of them looking up in disbelief. The map was pinpointing the signal finally, and it looked amazingly as though it was coming from somewhere near this building. Somewhere very, very close. “Bergman, figure this shit out _right now_ , Abbie keep him talking.”

“Get five men to search the building; five more to search the parameter. _Quietly_.” Locke was growling to one of his officers, who left the room hurriedly.

“Look for me if you feel like you have to.” Isaiah was saying. Abbie snapped her eyes away from the monitor, her focus returning to his calm, quiet voice. “Just remember, Abbie: I only want _you_. When we begin this, you’d better be alone. No cops, no feds…and don’t even think about inviting that so-called partner of yours.

“You won’t like what I do to him. If you want, I can start destroying them without you, but I’d rather have you here. What do you say, lieutenant?”

Abbie crushed her eyes shut and huffed out a breath, nodding to no one. “On one condition.”

“Yes?” He asked, softly, unnerving her further.

“Don’t hurt anyone, Isaiah. I’ll find you, I promise you that. But until I do…don’t hurt them.”

“What a thing to ask. I forgot how confident you are, Abbie.”

“Is that a yes?”

He paused, making her wait, before finally agreeing: “Alright. I won’t. Tick tock, Abbie. You have until tomorrow to figure out where to start. Until then…I can’t wait to see you…”

He hung up.

The other agents, Jacoby, and Locke wasted no time closing in on her as soon as the line was cut.

“What was he telling you? ‘This place is full of clues’, what’s that mean?” Jacoby demanded.

“Sir, this thing keeps giving us bupkiss, we’re gonna lose it soon,” Bergman reported, stepping around them to sit down at one of the computers under the mounted monitor.

“Watson, get your butt out there with the chief’s men and search this place.”

“You’re gonna just let that _shit show_ slide, sir?” Watson argued, glaring at Abbie.

Jacoby turned around and stared at her until she relented. “You’re wasting precious time, detective.”

Watson stormed off, checking her weapon before slipping through the door and disappearing from view. Jacoby and Locke turned their attention back to Abbie, now.

“He’s right. I _do_ know him.” Abbie found her voice, determined not to allow everyone’s mistrust cloud to her instincts. The call hadn’t gone exactly as she would have wished, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t gleaned some inkling of insight into what Isaiah was trying to tell her. “I think he’s trying to get me to figure out what he’d do…how he’d play this.”

“Alright. Well, you heard the man, Mills. ‘Tick, tock’…” was Jacoby’s blunt reply.

Abbie thought hard, pacing. Bergman glanced up at her from her laptop every now and then as she bit her lip and tried to piece together what he’d said with what she knew about him. She looked up at the monitor, which showed the signal was gone. But he was close, or he’d been calling from close by…or… _or what, Abbie—think!_

She thought back to those times she’d arrested him. He was right; he was a smart kid. Bold, militant, emotionally unstable…but smart. He cased the places he vandalized and robbed by becoming intimate with the surroundings. He worked there, knew people there, gained trust, and fulfilled his own self-hating delusions by sabotaging that trust.

“He works here…” she muttered, staring up at the map, which still showed the vicinity of the Chester police department and courthouse, though the signal had disappeared. Everyone balked at her words.

“Come again?” Locke barked.

Abbie ignored him, still thinking. “Or-or knows someone, or is _close to this building_ in some way. Uh…a custodian…a court clerk…chief, _any_ new faces shown up around here in the last few days?”

Chief Locke scoffed, bewildered, and shook his head. “Are you kidding? Look outside! The place is swarming with press! I know my team; I know my station. You think I’d let a fucking killer stalk around here _unnoticed?_ ”

“Look, I know how it sounds, but you need to trust me. We don’t have time for this!” Abbie refused to back down. “You said to do whatever it takes to find him, I’m telling you just give this some thought.”

“Hear her out, chief.” Jacoby spoke up calmly, watching Abbie.

Locke glowered, but didn’t speak again.

“You’re out there looking for some kind of masked monster, I’m telling you he’s in plain sight.” Abbie continued without hesitation. She looked around her, at the bank of monitors showing her various things: maps, photos of Isaiah and of his crimes scenes, photos of his victims and known hostages, the twenty-four hour news broadcast…

“He said he’s been watching us.” Jacoby urged her on. “You think he’s casing the place?”

“He’s doing more than that. He’s talking to people…listening…watching our every move…”

“ _How?!_ ” Locke growled, losing his patience.

“Like you said, chief. The news. Reporters. Camped out at this place for days.”

“Fuckin-A.” Bergman, who’d been eavesdropping on every word, exclaimed. “She’s right.”

“He’s probably out there with them right now, sir.” Abbie said confidently.

They all exchanged looks before springing to action, Locke radioing for his men and Jacoby doing likewise for Watson. “Be on the lookout, hit up the press pit, do you copy?” Jacoby’s twang rasped out urgently. “Check out cameramen, reporters, security, anyone and everyone— _smoke this fucker out!_ ”

“Copy, I’m on it.” Watson replied.

“Mills, you’re with us.” Abbie reached for her weapon as Jacoby whistled at her to follow him and Locke from the room, out into the station.

They very quickly slipped through the halls, grasping but not unholstering their weapons as they moved. Locke led them out of a side door, and suddenly they were in a freight corridor running along side the building. Abbie caught up to the taller men as they closed in on the end of the corridor and Locke checked that they were on his flank before pushing it open.

The pale afternoon sun cast their shadows against them as they moved swiftly around to the front of the building, keeping their eyes peeled. Abbie caught sight of Watson weaving through the press pit, exchanging brief words with a few of the people there. Locke’s men were patrolling around the sides of the building, stopping anyone they didn’t recognize.

“Tell me something good, Mills” Jacoby muttered as they three came to a halt just at the threshold of the press pit, looking at every face that turned their way.

“He’s here, somewhere,” she replied, her gut telling her she was right.

Watson found them, an urgent expression on her sour face. “No one’s seen him now, but one or two of them said something about a camera guy with no reporter…”

“What’d he look like?” Locke hissed.

Watson nodded, already confirming their suspicions. “It’s a description match. He was last seen standing near a white unmarked van…”

“Shit, like _that one_?” Abbie cut her off, and they all turned to see the tail end of a white van speeding down the driveway to the small parking lot near the exit door Jacoby, Locke, and Abbie had come through. They all sprang into action, but Abbie left them in the dust, her legs pumping overtime in pursuit of the van.

“Get a unit and follow that white, unmarked van headed east on Vanderbilt, now, now, _now_ , copy?” She heard Locke instructing over his radio.

Abbie’s heart and lungs felt like they’d explode as she lost her steam, and the van disappeared from view. A squad car was already after it, as was an unmarked black town car. Feds, she guessed. She changed tack, turning to face Jacoby, Lock, and Watson, who were catching up to her.

“Where’s your car? Let’s follow them.”

In the present, Abbie stood in the ladies’ room stall and winced at the thought of how sure she’d been that they’d catch him. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. When they caught up to the squad car and federal agents that had been sent in pursuit, they’d already lost him.

They searched a twenty-block radius, then they doubled back and widened their parameter. For hours they combed the area, calling for backup units to help the search. Finally, someone spotted the van. It had been ditched in a garage eight blocks from the station. No sign of Isaiah, though he left behind a jacket adorned with the logo of a fake news station, a burner phone, and some heavy-duty camera equipment. Of course no one thought anything of it, in a sea of press, except to note perhaps that he was missing a reporter. He blended right in, and watched them right under their noses. Now he was gone.

Watson refused to talk to or look at Abbie on the way back to the station. The press pit went frantic when they returned, and Locke once again faced the music, not admitting to anything but a small security threat that was being investigated.

Abbie couldn’t help thinking Watson was right, and the knot in her stomach reared its ugly head again. This _was_ a shit show. She was doing a bang up job so far. On the way back into the station, Abbie couldn’t help veering sharply away from her path following Jacoby back to the war room, headed for the ladies’ room instead.

She rushed blindly toward the door, pushing her body through it and finding her way somehow to the first empty stall, barricading herself inside and vomiting her guts out. Captain Reyes’ words, Jacoby’s, Locke’s and Isaiah’s all rang in her head at once. Yet through it all, she couldn’t stop longing to hear Crane’s voice again.

As if by some miracle, as soon as she wiped her mouth and took a deep breath, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Crane. She took a second to collect herself before she answered it.

“Leftenant?” came his familiar, smooth tenor, coated with concern.

“Hey…” she leaned against the stall, laughing at herself. “Perfect timing.”

“Are you alright?” He asked immediately, not surprising her at all, but causing her to smile.

“I’m fine. What’s up?”

“I have news.” He said, and that’s when he told her about the book…and the mysterious witch…and some candle shop in Shreveport.

Abbie sighed, smiling again in the present. That meant his first time on a plane. She lapsed into amused thoughts of Crane being flummoxed by the security measures, the waiting around, the tight, cramped spaces… _lord, please don’t let him be trapped on a plane with **children**!_

She was temped to text Jenny and tell her to give him alcohol as soon as possible, but a sudden, faint creaking sound interrupted her train of thought. The hairs on Abbie’s neck stood on end as she thought she heard faint footsteps, followed by another creaking sound—this one long, slow, and high-pitched.

 _It was probably just a woman coming to use the restroom_ , she told herself, but her body told her otherwise. The atmosphere in the room had grown heavy, thick with an uneasy cold. The hairs on her arms and neck stood on end, and she felt a presence so heavy that it caused her to swallow thickly. Just like in her car. Her heart began to _thump, thump, thump_ in her chest as she listened harder. “Hello?” she ventured, her voice shaking.

 _“Abigaaaaail…”_ a hollow, sighing voice sounded faintly in the silence.

She froze, her grip on her phone tightening. Abbie had a choice to make. She could try to hide or run like a coward, or she could face this and find out what the hell this bitch wanted from her. “Katrina?” She called out, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

She listened. Nothing. One of the faucets was dripping. _Drip, drip, drip_ …but nothing else.

She found her legs and stood up straight, reaching out to unlock the stall door and push it open slowly. The sunlight was so pale here in this part of Pennsylvania, and it made it hard for Abbie to focus. Shadows loomed in this huge, echoing ladies’ room. This station held far too much space.

“What do you want, Katrina? I’m right here. Tell me.”

She waited, standing near her open stall, watching the shadows. Nothing. No movement. No sounds except the _drip, drip_ of the faucet.

Then suddenly, a soft, desperate moan. As though a warning, but somehow more sinister. It was faint, and it happened fast, but she had definitely heard it. _“You’ll die!”_

Abbie got her feet moving and starting walking briskly, towards the door. She felt eyes on her, wrapping her in a cocoon of unease, but she kept her pace. Suddenly, one of the mirrors on her left shattered and a shard of glass shot right at her face. Abbie ducked, suppressing a yelp, and surged forward at a faster speed as the glass hit one of the stall doors on her right and fell to pieces on the floor. As she reached the door, she heard a stall creak open behind her. Slowly. Deliberately. Despite her pounding heart, and the promise of escape just beyond the door, she turned back to the gray, shadowy room. She saw the stall opening, coming to a halt with no wind and no person in sight to make it. She stared, heart now thundering, hand on the door, eyes searching.

Footsteps. And then movement. A figure, swathed in shadow, moving haltingly, slowly. Adorned with fiery red hair. Stepping out of the stall, turning its face to her. Abbie’s breath stalled in her chest as a pair of truly horrifying eyes found hers.

She flew back through the door, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the terrifying figure standing in the ladies’ room, staring at her. The image of the floating red hair and cold green eyes haunted her as she ran smack into Detective Jacoby. He gripped her shoulders, steadying her on her feet. “Hey— _hey_ , Mills!?” He shook her gently. “Jesus Christ, you look like you seen a ghost! What the hell was all that racket?”

She focused on his face and allowed him to set her straight on her feet before stepping back from him. She caught her breath, shaking but trying to get a handle on it. “No, uh…it’s just adrenaline from that chase. Mirror broke, spooked me, that’s all. I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Look,” he sighed and rubbed his balding head. “I know you got your guts all twisted up about this, but you gotta get your shit together. War room’s waiting.”

She nodded, glancing back at the ladies’ room door before shaking off her fear. “Let’s start with that van…” she said, standing up to her full height, meeting his gaze determinedly.

He nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way. “Read my mind. After you.”

Abbie hoped Crane could find a way to call Katrina off soon. She was toying with her, that much was obvious. Trying to rattle her, getting her primed for what, exactly, Abbie didn’t know.

She desperately longed for Crane as Jacoby eyed her worriedly, following her back to the war room. But she couldn’t have him now. And after what Isaiah had said, he shouldn’t be anywhere near her anyway.

 _One problem at a time, Abbie_ , she told herself. One damned mysterious problem at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping things moving. More to come, including Ichabod's first time on a plane!


	7. don't go to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod was being tortured every time he closed his eyes. Whatever Katrina was showing him, it was designed to make him feel as much fear for Abbie’s safety as possible. That was the best (and sometimes only, she was coming to learn from the man who would sacrifice himself to save his friends) way to unravel Ichabod Crane. Threaten the one he loved, more than all the others. Eventually you will see what it looks like when a disciplined man becomes unglued. The thought of anything happening to Abbie scared the hell out of Jenny, but the thought of Crane's brand of vengeance was something scarier.

> _I know you_
> 
> _I walked with you_
> 
> _once upon a dream_
> 
> _I know you_
> 
> _that look in your eyes_
> 
> _so familiar a gleam_
> 
> _and I know its true_
> 
> _visions are seldom all they seem_
> 
> _but if I know you…_

\- Lana Del Rey, “Once Upon A Dream”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

(Ichabod.)

 

The airport was a den of Hellish torture.

The ridiculous tariff for ‘checked’ baggage was one thing, but being forced to parade around in bare feet to be allowed admittance was utterly egregious. Not to mention the discovery that they were only allowed liquids in a container no bigger than two of his forefingers put together. Jenny and Frank remained on the edge of amusement at his expense as they navigated their way through check in and security, which only served to distress him further.

“Please tell me these contemptible assaults on our God-given liberties have come to an end?” he grumbled as they moved, single-file, towards their assigned seats on the crowded plane.

Jenny, who was walking in front of him, rolled her eyes but injected a hefty dose of patience in her voice as she turned her head to answer: “Relax, Icky. We just sit back, buckle our seatbelts, and wait for takeoff. _Quietly._ ”

He clenched his jaw, indignant at her tone (but quite used to that dreadful nickname by now), and straightened his posture out of habit as he followed. Frank, he could hear behind him, was leaving a voicemail for his estranged wife, informing her that he would be leaving town for a few days, inquiring after his daughter. Ichabod purposefully tuned him out, not wishing to eavesdrop on the man’s private conversation.

He briefly wondered if he should be worried about Jenny. If his suspicions about their dalliance the previous night proved true, that might certainly mean emotional turmoil in light of such thorny domestic circumstances. He would not wish it on his enemy, having firsthand knowledge of what it is to navigate the murky waters of forbidden love. But then, he was getting ahead of himself. This was, after all, the twenty-first century (as the Leftenant delighted in reminding him with an almost wicked zeal). Men and women in these times were more…open-minded…about their romantic entanglements. Perhaps Jenny, like Abbie, could ‘take care of herself’. Perhaps it was none of his business. If only she felt the same way in regards to _his_ romantic conundrum. Still, it wasn’t his place to pluck at her personal life in public, as he learned so justly with the Leftenant the night before.

They located their seats at last, on the right side of row seventeen, all three of them seated next to each other, Ichabod by the window, Jenny in the middle and Frank on the aisle.

Ichabod found his nerves beginning to come alive as he figured out how to buckle himself into his seat, chancing a look through the small window to his right. They would be in flight soon. His eyes darted all around his surroundings, watching people take their seats, listening to the sounds of the captain announcing their flight itinerary and then the emergency protocol demonstration, and this enormous, powerful contraption as it rumbled to life. The notion of being lifted thousands of feet into the air and transported across miles and miles of land to a city he’d never been was a thrilling one, but thinking of the actual experience of it admittedly made him tense. He wished for Abbie more than anything else, both to share the experience with and as a soothing balm to his suddenly flailing nerves. She would doubt be unable to resist poking fun at him, but their banter alone would set him at ease.

He felt Jenny’s cool hand on his and realized that he was gripping the seat arm for dear life with his strong, slender fingers. “Hey. Just breathe, okay?” she whispered sympathetically.

He nodded quickly, doing as she instructed. “Breathe. Yes, thank you.”

“It’ll feel a little weird at first,” Jenny went on, blessedly generous in her efforts to calm him. “It’ll go from slow to fast in seconds, and you’ll feel this dip in your belly…and your ears will pop. But don’t worry. It’s all just part of the ride.”

“That sounds intriguing,” he accepted. It almost served to help him forget his anxiety, thinking of cataloging each and every moment of the experience.

“It’s cool. And then you’ll just happen to look up.” She gestured with her chin at his window, still holding his hand. “And you’ll see the city, miles and miles below us…it’s beautiful. You’ll see. Nothing to worry about.”

And she held his hand still as the captain announced takeoff, and the plane suddenly ascended. She’d been right—his stomach did feel somehow untethered from gravity for a moment, and he did experience a strange popping sensation in his ears. Then it was over; the plane steadied itself and all seemed calm again, though Ichabod remained uneasy, refusing to look at his window.

“Hey…” he heard Jenny whisper, and she gestured to his window again. “Look. Trust me, you want to see this.”

He turned finally and looked through the window. What he saw was utterly devastating. He saw miles and miles of lights, far down below him…they were moving. The city was alight, and alive, and it felt as far away and miniscule to him as an anthill. It _was_ beautiful, just as she’d said. He stared at the scene for a long while, memorizing every detail of it. Then he took a picture with his phone for good measure, wishing to preserve it as he saw it for Abbie, for when he told her of it later.

“Okay, let’s get you some alcohol, S.T.A.T.” Jenny muttered, interrupting his thoughts.

A few moments later, the flight attendant took their orders, and Jenny wasted no time providing him with a cup of scotch. They all partook, and Frank raised his cup in toast. “Drink up.”

They did just that. Ichabod savored the feel of the sharp liquid sliding down his throat, and he relaxed almost immediately. They drank more, and soon he’d had two cups, working on his third. He felt the jaunty, unguarded nature from last night return to him, two-fold, and was relieved that Abbie wasn’t present to bear witness to the slippery slope that was his handle on his manners when he was drunk. Which, he realized, was what he was surely becoming, forthwith.

He tried to hide it, looking straight ahead at the back of a woman’s unusually coiffed hair. “You know…” Jenny spoke suddenly, a hint of amusement in her voice: “Your phone has Face Time. You can look at her when you talk next time.”

_Speaking of plucking…_

Ichabod frowned, hating her straightforwardness but also appreciating her ability to peg him so precisely. “Face Time?”

“Yep. I know you miss her, Crane. _So_ …now, you can gaze longingly into her fair orbs the next time you converse…” she mocked his manner of speech, grinning impishly behind her cocktail cup.

He raised a very sharp eyebrow at her and downed the rest of his scotch, gesturing with his cup in admonishment. “Miss Jenny, managing to finagle a confession from me whilst I was in the throws of ‘road rage’ earlier doesn’t mean we are ‘B.F.F’s when it comes to my feelings for your sister.” Ichabod hissed, causing Frank to hiccup into his cup, spilling several drips of precious scotch on his vest. “I’ve no desire to ‘gaze longingly into her fair orbs’, which, by the way, is utter nonsense.”

Jenny laughed and rolled her eyes at him. “Hey, sorry, just thought you could use the tip.”

Ichabod blinked, his tipsiness egging on his curiosity. “Well, now you mention it…”

“Time out.” Frank whispered, having dried his spill with the small napkin the accommodating flight attendant provided him with his scotch. “Feelings? There was a _confession_ about _feelings_ and you didn’t tell me?”

“Yeah, you owe me fifty bucks.” Jenny said as an aside, before turning to trap Ichabod with her beguiling gaze. “Go on, Icky. I’m listening.”

Was he beginning to like this nickname or was it the scotch? He was appalled at the implication that she’d actually entered a bargain with Frank about his relationship with Abbie. But he pressed on, his curiosity and his scotch-fueled forwardness working together against him.

“While I have no desire to ‘spill my purse’ as I’ve heard Officer Rhodes so colorfully describe, I must admit that I am curious of your opinion on one matter.” He frowned past her to Frank, who was finishing off his own scotch.

“Earmuffs, Frank.” Jenny readied herself, her expression attentive.

Frank rolled his eyes and sighed. “Did you just ‘earmuffs’ me, woman?”

Ichabod watched Jenny’s expression change to that of thinly veiled coquettishness, and she turned to face Frank in her seat. “I’ll make it up to you later, promise.” She said with mischief in her voice. Ichabod’s brows rose to the heavens as he deduced the true meaning of her words.

“You better…” Frank said back, unabashedly stealing a glimpse at her lips.

Ichabod was forced to clear his throat.

“‘Earmuffs’, Captain, if you would please.” He urged on, and they both turned back to him as though just remembering he was there. 

Frank gave him a look that told him retribution was in store before locating the complimentary headphones in the ‘seatback compartment’ at his knees. He turned on the small television (a wonder that one can watch television thousands of feet in the air, ‘Wi-Fi’ was one of his favorite twenty-first century charms) and sat back in his seat, staring pointedly at an episode of _‘How I Met Your Mother’_.

Jenny patted his leg and turned back to Ichabod. “Okay. Shoot.”

His embarrassment poking at him from beneath a blanket of intoxication, Ichabod ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Firstly, I believe everything I confessed to you this morning still holds true,” he stressed, gesticulating with his empty cup. He took a moment to squeeze the cup, its elasticity never ceasing to amaze him. Plastic was also a favorite, and he gave it a squeeze a few more times for good measure. 

“Okay, no more scotch for you.” Jenny stole his cup and stuffed it into his seatback compartment. “You were saying?” she urged him on without missing a beat. The way she was leaning into their invisible bubble of confidence really was beginning to make him feel like they _were_ ‘B.F.F.’s. Or she was right, and it was definitely the scotch.

He eschewed prudence and continued:

“I am a man desperately in love, Jenny.” Ichabod finally confessed to someone out loud. He wished that this confession could belong to Abbie, but circumstances were well outside his favor. Jenny was a more than agreeable substitute. “These last few hours have been testament enough to that in my own mind. I convinced myself we’d have _more time_. Foolishly. 

“Sufficed to say, the complications the Leftenant and I would face— _Abbie_ and I would face—should we somehow find our way to each other, compelled me even more vigorously to take caution. To…” he shook his head slowly, “…muzzle myself, constantly. But now, the further we’re forced apart, the more certain I become that I want nothing more than to be as close to Abbie as possible.” 

Jenny’s eyebrows rose equally as high as his had. “Wow. Okay. Fair enough. So…what was the question?”

He nodded, snapping out of his revelry. “Ah. Yes. The question.” He averted his gaze and surged ahead. “I mean to confess myself to Abbie, once and for all. I daresay I grow closer and closer to sending her a ‘drunken text’ with each passing moment.”

“Oh dear…”Jenny interjected.

He held up a hand. “No worries. I am very nearly drunk, but not an imbecile. I was only saying that I wish to tell your sister the whole truth, but before that, I wish to know…what you might think of my chances.”

He chanced returning his eyes to hers, and found her smiling warmly. He glowered.

“This is not a moment to employ your voracious wit, Miss Jenny.”

She held her hands up in mock surrender, still smiling. There was no amusement in her eyes that he could find, however. “I wouldn’t dare.” When she felt satisfied he believed her, she lowered her hands and resumed her encompassing position. “Look, like you said, Abbie has issues. When it comes to things like love, she’s…a runner. Even when she knows, deep down, the best thing in the world for her to do is turn around and embrace what scares her the most.” 

Yes, this was true, he’d always understood. He was beginning to look on Jenny as an invaluable source of insight where his brave, adorably petit, enticingly beautiful fellow Witness was concerned.

“The fact that she’s working so hard to hide her feelings from you is all the proof you need. Come on, you knew that.” She gave him a quite sisterly look of exasperation. “Just like I know you’re not the kinda guy who tosses the word ‘love’ around like it’s a penny with a hole in it. I was listening at Maybe’s last night, you know.”

Ichabod stared at her in inebriated wonder. She spoke in riddles, but she made perfect sense. He soaked up every word, for he would need them to give him confidence when the time came to make a true confession.

“You’re the kinda guy who marries the woman he loves. Like, it’s a forever kind of thing for guys of your ‘ilk’, right?”

He didn’t answer, but she looked as if his silence had given her confirmation enough.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be complicated, Ichabod.”

He frowned at her use of his given name, very nearly sobered by her words.

“But you’re forgetting something. You two are meant to save the world. _Together_. Don’t you think you can handle some commitment issues, Casanova?”

He scoffed, then chuckled quietly. “A mere ‘walk in the park’.”

Jenny grinned. “Damn straight. I think all this gooey girl talk calls for at least another shot, what do you think?” 

Ichabod shrugged, feeling more at ease again. “I say let’s make it two. By the way, Casanova was a scoundrel.”

“A scoundrel who fell in love. And followed the love of his life to the ends of the earth.”

Well, now she was simply showing off.

After their shots, they sat up and talked for a long while, until their conversation eventually drifted to her and Frank. Ichabod rested his head against his seat, his face turned to hers. Jenny’s body was turned to face him, her head cradled in her arms. His eyes rose to see that Frank had drifted to sleep before he allowed himself to ask, “And what about _your_ heart? Do you look after it as vigilantly as you tend to your sister’s?”

Jenny smiled sadly, avoiding his gaze for a moment. “Yeah. I think so. Maybe I’m a little too protective of it.”

“Frank is a good man.” Her eyes quickly returned to his and she frowned, but didn’t interrupt. “He is a man of honor, and he is trustworthy. He is brave, and he is my friend.” Ichabod leaned forward, making certain that she could see the honesty in his eyes. “But even the bravest of friends are fallible. Please know: You can always count on me to stand at your side, should you ever require it.”

“Boy, we should give you scotch more often…” The younger Mills sister laughed at him quietly. He was being serious, but he couldn’t help a slow smile. “But thank you, Icky. I really appreciate that.”

Jenny reached over to squeeze his arm affectionately. “You’ve determined to call me ‘Icky’ until I’ve been tortured into liking it, haven’t you?” He mumbled, his eyelids sliding shut. He was feeling the weight of fatigue pressing down on him, aided by the considerable impact of the shots they had.

He heard Jenny laugh again, and his smile widened as he began to doze off. “Yep.” She confirmed, her voice a soft, amused whisper. “You’re right about Frank, too. He’s a good guy. We don’t expect anything more from each other than we’re both ready to give.”

“So you’re ‘good’, then?” Ichabod confirmed lethargically, his head starting to slip down into the crook of his shoulder. Jenny laughed again at how adorable he was, using slang she knew Abbie had taught him, passing out from a well deserved round of shots.

“I’m good, Icky.” 

He laughed sleepily at that damned nickname before finally giving in to slumber. He drifted into a deep, immersive sleep, thinking of Abbie…and he began to dream…

 

* * *

 

 

_(Captain Crane.)_

 

_Captain Ichabod Crane stood rigidly by the window of his modest room, staring down at the front lawn of Frederick’s Manor. The pale dawn crept toward him on the horizon, but it was not the soon rising sun that he struggled to pry his gaze from._

_It was the petit, delicate figure of Mrs. Grace Dixon’s niece Abigail that captured his attention. The clever, soft-spoken girl stepped gingerly across the damp green lawn towards the well in the distance, carrying two large water pails in her small hands. His brow furrowed, engrossed, seeing that even empty as they were, they gave her difficulty._

_He felt a great desire stir in him to go down and offer her his assistance. Witness her velveteen lips smile softly at him; hear her lovely voice call him ‘Captain Crane, sir’._

_With the aid of his cane, his long stride would deliver him to her before she crossed the halfway point of the lawn…he could…he wanted to. He warred with himself as he watched her laboring under the burden of the large wooden pails, her back to him, her soft black coils hidden under her white bonnet._

_Ever since she arrived a fortnight into his healing process from his last encounter with the Hessian, he failed on every occasion to pull his eyes from her pretty face whenever she was near. Mrs. Dixon was a gracious hostess, gently reminding the curious young girl not to bother the Captain while he was recovering from his wounds and grieving the loss of his wife and child. But in truth…ever since he first laid eyes on her fair visage, he spent his hours waiting and hoping to see her again._

_He offered his services when he had strength enough to move about, mending things, helping with chores (at the vigorous protest of the house matron), and teaching Miss Abigail anything she wished to know._

_He came to adore her manner; she was clever and had a spirit about her that reminded him sometimes of Katrina. She voiced her opinions, albeit always with her large, beautiful eyes turned downward in full awareness of her boldness. It thrilled him simply to exchange the smallest pleasantry with her. One ‘good morrow, how are you feeling Captain Crane, sir?’ gave way to inquiries on what he was reading, what he was tinkering with, and so on until soon they would speak for longer and longer intervals. She was inquisitive, and he was endlessly obliging, all for the pleasure of being in her company._

_Ichabod realized that she had disappeared from his view, along the small path that led to the well behind a cluster of trees. He had lost his chance to catch her in full view of the house…if he approached her now he would be tempting impropriety. Though he very much felt compelled to venture out into the chilly dawn and stand in her company. Speak to her alone, in the quiet calm of early morning…perhaps see if he could compel her to smile._

_He turned from the window, swallowing hard and telling himself over and over again to leave it. Leave her be. Stop shunting his grief to chase his curiosity…his infatuation._

_He busied himself dressing, feeling calmer for the meticulous process of lacing his boots, tying his hair, shining his buttons, securing himself into his jacket. Control. Poise. Decorum, Crane…he told himself as he left the comforting solitude of the guest room he’d been offered for the duration of his recovery._

_He tried not to remember that soon, he would be fully recovered, and would not wish to overstay his welcome in this gracious manor. He was getting stronger every day, and he could not impose for longer than was offered. But he would wish to return…to see young Miss Abigail’s face and hear her soft voice, teach her things, and make her smile._

_As the day progressed, he was relieved to find his encounters with her remained affable and appropriate. He was always afraid of giving himself away. Of his eyes lingering on her face for too long. Of becoming flustered in her presence. It did not help matters that **her** eyes were shining today; he couldn’t stop himself from seeking them out. She constantly busied herself whenever they mingled, bringing him his tea, dusting his books, drawing too close to peer over his shoulder at what he was reading. With each encounter, he struggled more to contain his pressing need to be near her, to draw out their exchange until he could think of nothing to say. He warred with himself each time, and each time it grew worse for him._

_Until…as the evening approached, and they had taken supper…she came in to bring his tea._

_She inquired what he was writing, and the words simply tumbled from his lips of their own accord:_

_“I am writing a journal of my encounters with the Hessian. Would you care to…read it?”_

_The way her large, beautiful eyes sparkled took his breath away. Ah, but she was fair. The lantern light cast such an enticing glow to her skin as her lips curved into a shy smile and her gaze slipped from his. “Pardon me, Captain Crain, sir. I wouldn’t wish to disturb you while you’re writing.”_

_She blushed, and a flash of heated desire warmed his skin. Against his mind’s will, his body bade him stand, and so he did, sliding his chair back and offering it to her. “Please. I wish to hear your opinion. I intend to publish it.”_

_She blinked at him with hesitation for a moment. And for that moment he silently screamed at himself for his unforgivable forwardness at the same time as he pleaded for her to accept his offer._

_Abigail smiled graciously, nodding at him. “It’d be my honor, sir.”_

_She took the seat, and (with some difficulty, aided by his cane) he knelt down on one knee beside her, knowing that it was entirely too familiar but unable to stop his desire from winning out against his reason. “I’m thinking of calling it ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’…”_

_She turned her face toward his, her lips parted as she breathed, “Oh, sir, but that sounds frightening.” He blinked, taken aback, and then she smiled playfully at him. He couldn’t help smiling back at her jest. “And very compelling.”_

_“Yes.” Ichabod uttered, realizing that he was so close, tucked beside her as she sat in his chair, that his breath disturbed the silky coils that escaped from her bonnet. His eyes roamed her face, committing every curve to his permanent memory. “That was my intent. It is, if I may say so myself, quite a thrilling tale.” He blushed and inclined his head humbly. “Or at least…I hope.”_

_Their eyes met again, but how her **lips** enticed him. “May I…?”_

_Ichabod had to pull himself out of his study of her lovely features to nod and gesture for her to take his journal from the desk. She did as told, pulling the leather-bound parchment from the wooden surface, angling it toward him so that he might read over her shoulder. He drifted infinitesimally closer, holding himself rigidly in check, feeling the warmth of her petit body wafting toward him. He could see, under the warm glow of the lantern on his desk, that her heart was fluttering, partially revealed to him from her bodice._

_The sight gave him a jolt in his groin; his length hardened and sprang to life in his trousers as Abigail began to read from his ledger. “‘The scent of blood was heavy and the sound of igniting gun powder served as a...por…port…’?”_

_“‘Portentous…” he assisted her, and continued reading softly with her, unable to stop himself from leaning closer. “‘…reminder of my approaching fate. I was to meet the Hessian Horseman on the battlefield this day; one was destined to cut down the other. It was the call of the horse’s mighty gallop that sounded out to me, under the crescendo of battle…the Horseman that I feared.’”_

_As they read together, Ichabod felt himself leaning still nearer to her, until they had both stopped reading and were now gazing into each other’s eyes. His chest and torso was angled toward her; her shoulder rested snugly against his arm. He was out of order, but he couldn’t stop. Abigail’s heart was fluttering so heavily that her bosom began to rise and fall, and he felt the swell of her deep breaths like a soft breeze. “I like it, sir. It’s full of…intrigue and bravery and poetry. Like you.”_

_They’d only just finished the opening paragraph. But her eyes were sparkling. Her lips were beckoning. His length ached and swelled for her…visions of what the delicate skin underneath her garments might feel like under his fingertips dancing around in his mind._

_“I…I like **you** , sir. Captain.”_

_Ichabod’s jaw clenched and he fixed her with a forbidding gaze, desperate to claim her lips. “You shouldn’t say such things, Abigail.”_

_She looked immediately contrite, and blushed again, looking down at her hands as they wrung themselves in her lap. “Forgive me, Captain, I-I didn’t mean to…!”_

_He rested his cane on the edge of the desk and reached to cup her face in his hand, bringing her eyes up toward his again. “You shouldn’t say them,” he began in a low, husky voice, his yearning for her betraying him with his every move, “because since the very first day I lay eyes on you…I’ve had you in my thoughts. And…such thoughts…it is **I** who should beg your forgiveness.”_

_She gasped softly, moving closer to him seemingly without thinking. He trapped her with his gaze as he felt the confession spilling from his soul. It was quiet; the house was at rest, the evening gloom settling on the manor. They sat frozen in anticipation—well not quite frozen. Her bosom rose and fell silently, and he stroked her face with his thumb. “What thoughts have you had?”_

_She whispered it with such feeling, her eyes locked on his, her lips so soft and inviting, that he answered her by leaning in to capture her mouth with his. Ah, she was so soft and delectable! She sighed diminutively against his lips as he kissed her, causing him to tighten his grip on her silky cheek and gently prod his way into her mouth with his tongue. Abigail whimpered, her bosom pressed against the side of his chest as Ichabod slowly tasted her, the delight he felt in his sins betraying him in a steady stream of warm breath through his nostrils. She tasted of a cool glass of cherry juice, an evening ritual he knew the Dixons practiced to keep their youth and spirit. He couldn’t help indulging in the taste of her, the feel of her tongue dancing with his, her plump breasts rising and falling against him, and the forbidden sounds of pleasure escaping her luscious lips. He could kiss her this way until the evening turned to morning again, so lost was he in finally letting go of his honorable restraint._

_“We shouldn’t…!” she breathed, reluctantly pulling away from him, even as one of her small hands had found their way to his vest. She clutched at him, thrilling him beyond measure, driving him to reach down and turn the chair just enough to allow him to wrap his arm around her small waist. Abigail breathed heavily as Ichabod pressed her petit body into his and angled his face so that they could be at each other’s eye level._

_“If ask it, I will release you and be gone come the morrow.” He watched her swallow and bite her plump bottom lip. “But I am afraid I cannot obey my honor with you here in my arms.” Ichabod leaned into her, close enough to kiss her again and rest his forehead against hers. He gripped her by the waist, his long fingers itching to relieve her of her corset and skirts. “You must put an end to this, if that is your wish, Abigail.”_

_His eyes burned into hers, his lips angling for another kiss, barely hanging on to his self-control. His young muse blinked at him, her skin glowing in the lamplight. She looked for all the world as though she was going to reject him, and he prepared to have his heart broken, but then she said quietly:_

_“I’m…I’ve never…”_

_Understanding what this meant, he struggled to hide the reaction of his manhood, now throbbing painfully, trapped and screaming to be free. He noticed that she was trembling, the beautiful thing, gazing at him beseechingly. She was anxious, but he could also plainly see the desire radiating in her large brown eyes._

_“If you wish me to stop, you need only ask.”_

_She nodded quickly and, to his surprise, leaned in to kiss him passionately. Ichabod turned fully toward her on his knees, knowing that he would suffer for it later, but not caring. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her still more, his desire for her burning like a funeral pyre in his chest._

_He could no longer restrain himself from reaching behind her with one hand to work at undoing her corset, and she gasped and clutched at his vest as they kissed fervidly. The only sounds punctuating the rapidly darkening evening were those of the two lovers breathing each other in and out, kissing softly yet intensely, and Ichabod’s chair creaking with their movement._

_Abigail’s bosom heaved and fell against him, calling out to him as he tore at the strings binding her, hiding her from him, torturing him. He kissed her by stroking her mouth with his tongue, lapping at her bittersweet cherry taste, and sucking at her plush lips._

_Finally, her corset was loosened and Ichabod broke their kiss to look downward. He pulled it from her and it fell to the floor, forgotten. Inhaling slowly, Ichabod watched his long fingers as they untied the strings of her bodice, opening the garment and exposing her mesmerizing skin. Her pert, round breasts were finally revealed to him, and he licked his lips with anticipation. Abigail breathed heavily as he leaned forward and lapped at one of her springy brown nipples._

_Undone with the taste of her, the feel of her in his mouth, he circled her nipple repeatedly with his tongue, pinning her against him. She breathed through her open mouth, her fingers entwined in his hair, loosening the tie that held it back out of his face. He moved to indulge himself with her other breast, unforgiving in his appetite for her…his Abigail…_

_He had to have her. He supped at her lovely bosom once more, gently licking her swollen nipples between his lips indulgently. Then he turned his face upward to hers, his arms wrapped around her, one hand reaching up to feel her soft coils against his fingertips. “Do you wish me to stop, Abigail?”_

_Her fingers in his hair and gripping his vest, the remnants of his administrations cooling and evaporating from her dark areoles, she shook her head. “No…please…don’t stop.”_

_Ichabod claimed her lips again without another word, kissing her masterfully, before letting her go and standing with the aid of his desk for leverage. He did not reach for his cane, however. Instead he stepped back and reached down for Abigail. She made a soft noise of surprise as he scooped her up into his arms and held her against him, making sure that his grip on her thighs and waist was firm. He kissed her again, trailing his lips down from hers along her sweet neckline, making her shiver against him, her delectable breasts peeking out from her open bodice._

_He walked carefully with her, slowly, to his bed. Her eyes grew larger with anticipation as they came closer to it, making him so hard and in need of her that he could barely control his movements. His chest burned and his manhood ached as he delivered her to his bed and stood upright again to admire her there, peering up at him through those impossibly long lashes of hers. Hesitantly, she reached up to untie his hair. He allowed her, bending over for her to reach the tie, and it fell to his shoulders, obscuring his face. He tread a hand through it, removing it from his eyes, never breaking his gaze from hers. He undid his cuffs and his vest, removing them and tossing them aside. Once he’d disrobed himself, Abigail allowed him to do the same, and he reverently removed her bonnet. Her thick, soft black coils cascaded down to her shoulders, making his breath hitch in his chest. Some of her locks fell into her eyes, against her lashes, but she didn’t bother to move them away. Enchanted by the vision of her, Ichabod hastily crawled naked into bed with her, both of them heated to their cores, their warmth mingling and drawing them close to each other._

_He freed her from her bodice and claimed her mouth again, pressing her back into the bedding, grinding himself into her. He could feel her heat escaping her skirts, pulling at him. Her breasts rubbed along his chest, her hands in his hair, her legs instinctually opening for him. He wanted, with all his being, to enter her and take her without hesitation._

_But he had to taste her first. He could not resist, his mouth watered against her throat as he gripped her thighs hungrily. Ichabod kissed a trail from her throat to her bosom, where he paused to lick at her tender nipples again with sweet thoughtfulness. She moaned softly and undulated against him again, her thighs quivering in his grasp._

_He reached down, impatient with yearning now, and gathered her skirts to lift up to her waist. His mouth let go of her breast and he focused on the task at hand, sliding his body downward until his shoulders rested between her legs, her naked, glistening flower fully exposed to him. A nestle of soft, damp black coils rested at the top of her tender opening, giving way to faint wisps gathered around her honey brown lips. Her pearl peeked out at him, swollen and beckoning to him from ‘neath her slick folds. Ichabod gently pried her thighs open further and leaned forward to plunge his steaming tongue into her quivering sex. Abigail whimpered and angled herself into his face, causing him to fold his mouth over her delicious center and suck at her indulgently. He lapped at her repeatedly, wetting her from top to bottom, relishing the quake of her writhing body against him._

_Oh, how he’d dreamt of this…how guilt and desire mingled and burned in his gut as he tasted her most precious of secret places…Abigail…how her moans and sighs enslaved him, made him desperate to make her break apart around his tongue. She was tangy sweet (not unlike the cherry juice from her mouth), hot and slick. She writhed around his face, so tender and soft. He was under some kind of spell as he feasted on the glistening nectar that drenched her lips and her swollen bud._

_“Ohhh, Captain!” She hissed, and suddenly her body was an avalanche of sensation, quaking and falling down around him, flooding his mouth with her juices. He held her tightly as she rolled her hips against him, shuddering and clutching at his hair. Ichabod adoringly licked her clean, but wasted no time thereafter to relieve his aching member of its need._

_He crawled upward along her petit, trembling body, resting his heavy hips and waist between her pillow-soft thighs. He kissed her tenderly, holding himself up with his forearms braced into the bed, his hands full of her thick hair, his own locks falling over his face like a veil that protected them from the eyes of the spirits. Her center was steaming and slippery wet against him. He could hardly wait to take her.  
_

_“Abigail…” he breathed against her lips, desperate, but still understanding the weight of what they were doing. What he was about to take from her. What she was about to give. What he wanted ( **needed** ) from her, with all his being. He hoped and prayed she would let him inside her, his whole body burned for it. “Please.”_

_She nodded against his face, her body so small and precious underneath him, her quivering sex sliding wantonly against his hard length. “Yes…I love you, Captain…Ichabod…I’m yours.”_

_He hadn’t expected to hear this, and he felt his heart thundering in his chest as the emotion behind her words washed over him, but he could not stop himself now. With slow, aching tenderness, he slid his thick length inside her tight sex, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the slope of her neck, groaning with each push. He buried himself inside her to the hilt, causing Abigail to moan and bite her lip, clutching at him. “Am I hurting you, my love?” He whispered, even as he was unable to stop himself from grinding into her and kissing her sweet lips in ecstasy._

_“Mmm…I can bear it…don’t stop…” she merely moaned._

_He thrust into her again, slowly, causing delicious eddies of pleasure to ripple through them both, one to the other. He licked at her breasts and kissed her soft lips as he took her sex, her delicate folds enveloping him again and again. He did not wish to cause her pain, but she felt so good to him, so tight and wet, her whole body so luscious and pliant underneath him. He drove himself into her with ever-increasing need, and she took him with tears sprouting in her large, beguiling eyes. Abigail, Abigail, **Abigail** … His headstrong, beautiful Abigail was so open and so wet and so willing for him that it nearly drove him mad with desire. Her round, soft breasts bounced against him; she made such sweet, enticing sounds for him as he plundered her desperately. Ichabod made love to her as he’d always intended, dreamed, wanted…letting go of his guilt, embracing his sins, forgetting his pain and grief, only losing himself in the moment. In the steady push of his swollen cock into her virgin sex over and over and over again. Her breath was an encouraging mantra against his mouth, her eyes glazed over with pleasure. Her succulent lips quenched his thirst for her as her molten center fulfilled his need to be as close to her, as deep inside of her as was humanly possible. He was drunk on the overwhelming ecstasy her juicy depths gave him as they enveloped his adamantine length. _

_She shuddered and broke apart around him suddenly, her sex squeezing him tight in delicious little spasms as she came._

_He followed quickly; fore he could not stop himself. With her so soft and warm beneath him, he succumbed to his pleasure…rocking into her fiercely as his seed filled her. He fell down into a labyrinth of ecstasy, his abdomen contracting uncontrollably as his orgasm ripped through him without mercy. She cradled him in her arms, stroking his hair as they both came down from it, calming their breathing, settling into one another._

_Ichabod raised his head to gaze at her through a haze of lethargic happiness. “I am in love with you, Abigail. God forgive me…”_

_She merely kissed him, and soothed him with her fingers stroking his long hair, until they fell asleep in each other’s arms. He had no inkling of the future that awaited them come the morrow. He only knew that he would fight for her, if he must. He would stand with her and behind her, and his only goal would be to love her freely, until his dying day, if she would have him. He slept, at peace, with her warm and small, nestled against him._

_Until at some hour unknown, in the pitch black of night, he awoke feeling uneasy._

_Abigail lay slumbering in his arms, oblivious to the inexplicable chill in the room. Some dreadful feeling crept its way through his body, from the tips of his toes to his hair follicles. His eyes scanned the room, cradling Abigail against him, wary of the darkness. And there, in the dimness, stood a terrifying figure: tall, pale, and swathed in shadow—but for a pair of horrible, bright green eyes, and a halo of floating, fiery red hair.  
_

_Ichabod’s heart seized in his chest, and he fought to sit upright; to defend himself against this horrendous specter. He wanted to whisper “Katrina…?!” But his voice would not give way.  
_

_He knew it was she, as surely as he knew that he could not move an inch. Naught a single muscle in his body would obey his command. He was helpless, frozen, unable to protect Abigail or himself. The figure—his late wife, he was sure of it with every terrifying second—began to advance on them. Slowly, haltingly, as though slogging through mud._

_She crept up their bed, the flash of something shiny and deadly sharp clutched in her decrepit hand. The dagger from the church. The very same he used to stab her to death. In another life. In another reality. He must wake from this nightmare. He realized then, upon sight of the ghastly weapon, that this was not real._

_But he could do nothing to escape from it._

_Ichabod’s heart felt as though it would burst open as he struggled with all his might too MOVE, CAPTAIN—WAKE, NOW!_

_No use. She advanced. He could do nothing to stop her. For one agonizing moment, the ghostly figure paused to slide her dead green eyes his way. They locked onto his, and he felt himself on the verge of death right then and there. He felt her hatred, her sorrow, her pure, bitterly evil intent course through him like a fire through his veins. And then she struck—bringing the blade down, down, down into Abigail’s body! Again, and again, and again!_

_Blood and screams and agony pierced his world, as the wretched ghost murdered his beloved with him helpless to stop her. And like a mist on the wind, she disappeared, leaving a bloody mess in her wake. He was finally able to move, but all he could do was curl himself around Abigail’s mangled body and moan from the depths of his soul._

* * *

 

 

(Ichabod. / Jenny.)

 

 

“ _ABBIE_ — _NO!_ ”

Ichabod awoke like a cannon, jerking forward against his seatbelt, drenched in ice-cold sweat, blind to his surroundings. He was still there, still in bed with Abigail, still reeling in the aftermath…her blood-drenched, mangled body losing all its warmth in his arms…

“No, no, no _God_ , no!” He moaned, tears stinging his vision, his hands shaking, confusion and grief and horror invading his mind like fire smoke.

“Whoa, whoa— _Crane_ , _calm down!_ ” Jenny was here, restraining him, her voice a desperate hiss.

He blinked away the vision of his dream’s version of Abbie, murdered in his arms, and finally focused on his companion’s face. Both Jenny and Frank were awake, as was the entire plane, apparently. Looking around, still shaking slightly with alarm, he observed the other passengers gazing at him warily, whispering among themselves.

“Hey, look at me.” Ichabod’s watery eyes snapped back to Jenny’s concerned face. A single tear escaped the bottom lashes of his right eye and traveled unhurriedly down his cheek toward his beard. “You had a bad dream. You’re okay.”

Their seats were suddenly surrounded by three flight attendants and a stern looking fellow Ichabod could see immediately was no ordinary passenger. “He’s okay,” Frank was saying calmly, even as his eyes darted back at Jenny and Ichabod with foreboding. “He just gets nervous on planes, right Crane?”

Clenching his jaw and swallowing down his terror, Ichabod nodded and cleared his throat. “My apologies…” He wiped the tear from his face and beard and narrowed his eyes at nothing.

Jenny could see that he wasn’t going to offer them any other explanation, so she turned around and smiled sweetly at the flight attendant who’d been serving them scotch. “We’re good. No need for any drama. He just had a nightmare, that’s all.”

“Of course, ma’am. Just, please be mindful of our other guests.”

“No problem.” Jenny nodded reassuringly and the young woman reluctantly called off her coworkers. The surly air marshal gave Crane one last once-over before making his way back to his seat.

The plane was quiet and still again.

Jenny turned back to Ichabod, with Frank over her shoulder. “What the hell were you dreaming about, dude?”

Ichabod could only shake his head, the dread from the experience slow to leave him. Like the last one, it stuck with him, torturing him. It had felt so _real_. Abbie—Abigail in the dream—had been in his arms, her body surrounding his, her sex finally open to him. And then…Katrina’s spirit had come.

“Crane, are you okay?” Frank asked insistently in a low, serious voice. “You’re white as a sheet, man.”

“I’ll be alright,” he managed to croak out, his eyes drifting through the shadows in the cabin. “I just need a moment…to…” His gaze stopped, his heart leaping into his throat, once it landed on a red-haired woman disappearing into the small corridor that housed the lavatories.

She was dressed in black. Her hair fluttering away from her face as she looked back at him before she was out of sight. Her skin was deathly pale. Her eyes eerily green. Katrina.

Jenny and Frank were gaping at him, alarm filling their eyes but no words coming to them.

Ichabod wasted no time explaining. Ire and intense will drove him to action, hastily unbuckling his belt and launching to his feet. He narrowly missed hitting his head on the low base of the overhead compartment, but ducked his body just in time before deftly stepping over his two companions toward the limited freedom of the aisle.

Jenny’s heart sank and her stomach clenched as she watched Crane make off like a Tearrytown escapee.

“ _Crane--?!_ ” she hissed, but he ignored her, taking several long strides towards the lavatories—toward the red-haired woman with pale green eyes.

“Stop!” He barked, catching her just as she was closing the door. He reached inside, forcing her to close it on his arm instead. Then without hesitation, he used the force of his full weight to pry it open again. In a blind rage, he grabbed hold of her and pulled her bodily out of the stall, his face in hers in a matter of seconds. “ _What have you done with Ab--?!_ ”

He stopped short, just as both Jenny and Frank had reached him. This woman was not Katrina. She was just a woman. A terrified woman. Ichabod hastily let go of her, mortified.

Once again, the entire cabin was alive with hushed voices, all eyes turned toward him with fear and alarm.

And here was the marshal again, breaking through Jenny and Frank to grab Ichabod by the shoulders as he was stumbling out an apology to the frightened woman. “U.S. Air Marshal! _STEP BACK_ , or you’re _OFF_ this flight!” 

“Shit.” Both Jenny and Frank cursed under their breaths simultaneously.

Note to self: alcohol and Crane do not mix in confined, inescapable spaces.

 

* * *

 

 

(Jenny. / Frank.)

  

With some major smooth talking, several rounds of profuse apologies, and a few little white lies, Frank and Jenny managed to talk the marshal into letting them stay on the plane until they landed at the Shreveport Regional Airport. Dropping a few names from Frank’s old days with connections didn’t hurt, either.

Crane was handcuffed with zip ties and not allowed to move or speak for the rest of the flight, however.

He obeyed, but his radiant blue eyes were like daggers the entire time. His jaw was so rigid it looked like it was chiseled out of stone. Thankfully, they only had another forty some odd minutes to go before they’d be prepping to land. The three of them sat in tense silence as the minutes ticked by, and then finally the captain flashed the seatbelt sign. The flight attendants began collecting trash, making sure everyone’s seat was upright, and checking that the three disruptive crazies in row seventeen were behaving themselves. 

Crane was escorted off of the plane, and stood stiffly glaring at the wall as his restraints were cut and his carry on items were searched. Jenny and Frank could only offer him solidarity through their own stoic silence.

They mutely walked side-by-side through the airport, collected their things at the baggage claim, and went to retrieve their car.

Once inside, glowering in the back seat, Crane finally ended his mutinous silence. “I will swim the Mississippi river before I set foot on another airplane again, mark my words.”

Frank burst into laughter, unable to help himself. Crane’s eyes widened self-righteously, but that only caused Jenny to start giggling shrilly. They laughed heartily at his expense as Jenny took them onto the highway, headed for their modest, “out of the way” hotel, as she’d put it earlier.

“Okay, okay…I gotta ask.” Frank breathed deeply, a grin spread wide across his face as he looked at Crane through the rear view mirror. “How did you _think_ it would turn out after you scared the piss out of that poor lady, Crane?”

Jenny tried and failed to stifle more laughter. Crane crossed his arms and huffed, leaning back into his seat.

“What were you _doing_ , man?”

“Was it the dream?” Jenny cut in, her demeanor entirely serious now, just that quickly. Frank’s smile faded as he watched her exchange meaningful, heavy looks with Crane through the rearview mirror. “Was it…Katrina?”

“Oh.” Frank sobered up, getting his head in the game as they coasted a notch or two above the speed limit through the mild highway traffic.

Silently, Crane nodded, his long hair falling just past his shoulders. Frank thought he looked like a hipster who took it a little too seriously, but he would never say it aloud. They were working right now, anyway. The moment for joking had passed.

“Did she say anything? Give you any more clues?” Jenny pressed, her eyes flickering from the road in front of her to the lanky man glowering in the back seat behind her through the mirror.

“Hey, watch the road, Rambo. I’ll do the talking.” He offered, perhaps a bit paternally, but she only smirked in his direction and did as he requested. She was always surprising him.

“The only message she brought with her was murder, Jenny.” Crane said cryptically in the back seat, and Frank’s attention was ripped away from Jenny by the gravity in the other man’s words. Even Jenny tore her eyes off the road one more time, her face blanching as she gripped the wheel a bit tighter.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Crane?” Frank urged him to continue. Jenny felt her heart beating like crazy in her chest, and tried her best to focus on driving, but she strained to hear the Witnesses’ next words.

“She’s toying with me, it’s that simple.” They both recognized dark, simmering anger coating his low voice. It did not bode well, that was for damn sure. “But I am also certain that she intends mortal harm to us all. Most of all Abbie.” His gaze finally rose to rest on the former police captain’s. He looked pissed. “I will die before I let that happen. Mark my words.” 

This time there was absolutely nothing to laugh at. Frank nodded slowly, knowing the two hundred and fifty-something year old soldier meant every word.

“Anything that could help us stop her?”

Crane sighed and thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “I believe we’re drawing closer to finding answers.”

“How?”

“Perhaps there is a pattern to this seemingly chaotic series of events. The further the Leftenant and I travel apart, the more our mystery beings to unravel. The more Katrina reveals herself.”

“Do you think Abbie’s experiencing this stuff, too?” Jenny asked, finally spotting their exit and switching on her right turn signal.

“She hasn’t mentioned it. But…I have a terrible feeling she may be, yes.”

“We gotta stop this bitch.” Jenny growled, gunning it off the highway, forcing Frank to turn around fully in his seat again. Then, realizing what she’d just called his late wife, she bit the inside of her lip in annoyance. “Sorry, Crane.”

“You owe me no apologies, Jenny.” Crane said quietly, staring straight ahead at the road through the windshield. “Let us leave it at that.”

It had been another hour by the time they’d reached to the hotel, checked in, and unpacked. Crane was in his own room next door to Jenny and Frank, who would be sharing their queen-sized bed, single bathroom, and crappy little TV. They were all in a huddle in Frank and Jenny’s room not ten minutes after dumping their stuff and freshening up, however, discussing their plan for the night. The flight had taken around five hours, and so the evening had already settled over the town. The shop, according to its website, was closed for the night at this hour.

They decided their best course of action was to stake the place out. It would be low-key reconnaissance for tonight, to see what they could find under the cover of darkness. If they needed to, they’d send Jenny in under cover tomorrow to find out more.

Jenny knew that Crane was anxious to get some answers and get back to Abbie. So was she, but she tried her best to keep a cool head for both of them. He was focused, but she could tell that he was also brimming with anger. Her hunch had been right: the guy was being tortured every time he closed his eyes. Whatever Katrina was showing him, it was designed to make him feel as much fear for Abbie’s safety as possible. That was the best (and sometimes only, she was coming to learn from the man who would sacrifice himself to save his friends) way to unravel Ichabod Crane. Threaten the one he loved, more than all the others. And eventually you’ll see what it looks like when a disciplined man becomes unglued. The thought of anything happening to Abbie scared the hell out of Jenny, but the thought of Crane's brand of vengeance was something scarier.

She got a phone call she’d been waiting for from a very old friend who lived not too far from here, interrupting her sly observance of the lanky, besotted man. Her friend gave her some interesting news. News that, unfortunately, raised even more questions. “Thanks, man. I owe you one. Keep in touch this time, okay?”

“Oh hooker, I know you’ll just track my pretty ass right back down again, let’s not get it twisted.” He said dryly into the phone, his deep voice tinged with his trademark sass. She could picture him rolling his eyes at her while he painted his nails. She missed him. And he was right. She would track him down again, when this was all said and done with, just to enjoy his company for old time’s sake. But then he got serious. “Word to the wise, baby girl: These bitches keep they secrets, at any cost, and the shit I d’un heard they do to folks who can’t keep they mouth shut is _brutal_. They don’t call these hookers the ‘Sisterhood of the _Vengeful Serpent_ ’ for shits and giggles. So you be _careful_ , you hear?”

She had a feeling her other old friend (and old flame) was speaking here, too. She wouldn’t be surprised if the two boys from her past had talked, and as always, the former was still trying to protect her even after all these years, even without being involved. She counted herself lucky. 

“Always am. You can tell Sam that, too. Talk soon, Lafayette.” They hung up and Jenny turned back to the two boys in her present to deliver the news.

“You won’t believe this.”

They both gave her identical raised eyebrows and she rolled her eyes.

“A friend of mine who dabbles in magic has some connections around town. He says this coven is still practicing, has been for decades. Now they just do it at the ‘candle shop’.” Frank and Crane reacted to her news, exchanging heavy looks.

“Of course, Jenny Mills has a friend who ‘dabbles in magic’.” Frank deadpanned, and normally she would’ve had a witty retort ready, but she pressed on. She wasn’t done yet.

“That’s not all. They’ve got more going on in that damned shop than some dusty old antiques.”

“Séances...” Crane guessed, his voice as low as he grave.

“Well, I was getting there, but yes. They also operate a strip club and ‘escort service’ in the basement, but yeah—let’s focus on the part about the séances, for sure.”

“A strip club?” Crane made a face, and she thought she was going to have to explain the connection between stripping and the burlesque scene from back in his day all over again. But then his frown deepened and turned into something altogether more calculating. “Why would they choose to hide their practices with such a front? If anything, that would draw more attention.”

“I don’t know, but we should get over there.” Frank stood up, ready to be done with all the talking and theorizing and take action. “Let’s see what we can find.” 

They wasted no more time talking. The three of them suited up, loaded the car, and headed to get what answers they could at the _‘Beaumont Candle Boutique’_.

 _What a stupid name_ , Jenny thought as she started the car and waited for Frank to slide in and buckle up.

When everyone was inside, she gunned it, shifting into hunt mode. Time for her to do what she did best.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR AMAZING REVIEWS!! NEXT UP:
> 
> The A-Team goes on the hunt.  
> Abbie in the labyrinth Isaiah has painstakingly created for her.  
> Ichabod, Jenny, and Irving in a little candle shop/brothel just outside Shreveport.
> 
> When Katrina threatens Abbie again, this time in her dreams, Ichabod comes running.


	8. the dead g'on get you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod left the hotel and headed to the airport armed with the spell and naught more than a fierce drive to make it to Chester, Pennsylvania as quickly as possible. Alone. Determined. Utterly, foolishly in love.

> _I’m on call_
> 
> _to be there_
> 
> _don’t you know_
> 
> _I’ll be there_
> 
> _I’ll come a running_

\- Kings of Leon, “On Call”

 

* * *

 

  

(Abbie.)

 

Abbie sat with her head in her hands, her fingers laced through her hair, staring at nothing.

She was sitting in the middle of the war room, the florescent lights giving her a headache. Stuck. Everyone had gone quiet, seemingly returning to their busy work, but really understanding that they needed to give her a minute. They’d been going over the case, the clues, and all the questions that arose from recent events, for hours now.

The van had been stolen from a construction site right before the first murder and disappeared off the face of the earth. The plates had been switched and it had been remade to look like a fake news station.

“Credentials were faked under the name Kenneth Mackintosh, lives a few miles outside town, get this…he was a cameraman for a local station, called in his resignation a few days back, said he’s taken another gig, never heard from again.” Bergman had filled them in.

“He’s either dead or a hostage, you mean.” Abbie had theorized. “Did anyone file a missing person’s report?”

“Not yet; everyone assumed the guy had Ebola or something. You know how it is…news yuppies and their hyper-sensitivity.” Dead end until they produced a body or a clue that he was taken, which the field team was investigating now.

Among the very few things inside the van besides the credentials was a camera that had recorded hours of footage. They’d watched most of it, only to find once they started fast-forwarding that he’d simply watched the comings and goings of most of the key people in the room. Jacoby. The chief. Bergman. Watson. Abbie. He zoomed in on her face, and remained there. Then suddenly, pretty much the instant the press conference from this morning was over, the footage ended. Abbie felt a chill crawl down her spine just remembering it now.

There was no other clue that would lead them to someone else’s involvement. There was only, inexplicably for someone as shrewd as Isaiah, a receipt left on the floor of the front passenger seat. It belonged to a convenience store just outside town. It was for duct tape and gum.

They found out, after some light digging, that it was the convenience store where one of his hostages disappeared, a disappearance coinciding with their first known sighting of Isaiah within town limits. They managed to obtain security footage from the time that he bought the duct tape. Abbie’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she saw him, tall and broad-shouldered just like she remembered him, his face hidden in shadow from a tattered ball cap slung low over his brow. He walked around slowly for a few moments, then found the tape, took the gum, and paid for them. The clerk…he was the target. Isaiah left him alone at the time of the footage, but they knew of course that later (as was his M.O.) he would come back to ambush and kidnap the poor, unsuspecting man.

That gave them more information, but it told them nothing of where he could be, or where they should start to find him.

So here they were, their theorizing and digging and comparing flimsy evidence leading them nowhere. Watson sat across from her, not letting up for one second on her bullish scrutiny of the young detective. She cross-examined every suggestion or theory Abbie gave, and at first she let it slide, but after a while it started to wear thin. Abbie had to just start outright ignoring her without seeming hostile about it. The chief had retired to his office not long ago, leaving them to it. She was grateful that she didn’t have to put up with them both simultaneously.

Bergman was at least trying to be helpful, throwing out suggestions every now and then or attempting to help her complete her thoughts. Jacoby supervised and poked and prodded—and sometimes yelled—but he had run out of steam half an hour ago.

Through it all, Abbie really, _really_ missed Crane. But she couldn’t have him. So she had to just get on with it.

Jacoby was now perched on a desk, leaned over in a hunch, his arms folded, his balding head hung low. “Okay, people.” He sighed after a moment and sat upright. “Let’s call it. We got no more leads to cling to tonight.”

Abbie finally sat up too, swallowing hard and feeling eyes on her from all over the room. “We should try one more thing.” She said quietly, standing up from her seat. She had an idea. Something that had been at the back of her mind all day, nagging her, and suddenly, it was like the fog had parted.

Watson scoffed loudly and rubbed her rigid jaw, smiling bitterly over at Bergman. “Can’t wait to hear this…”

“Put a fuckin’ sock in it, Watson.” Jacoby barked tiredly. “You got anything constructive to say this evenin’?”

Watson lost her smirk but said nothing.

“Didn’t think so. What is it, Mills? Better be good. I got a hankerin’ for a beer and some ribs.”

Abbie couldn’t help a tired smile from catching her off guard. He seemed to get more southern as he got more exhausted. She could just picture what he’d sound like when he was drunk. But she quickly focused on what she needed to say. Ignoring Watson and the others, she appealed directly to Jacoby. “Bergman is right—a stolen van and a camera are one thing, but the redesign job he did and the credentials he faked to pose as a cameraman could actually be connected to how he got whatever he has to block our traces.”

Jacoby shrugged, unimpressed, waiting for her to get to the point. But Abbie’s mind was going, she was working it out as she went.

“He didn’t have a lot of time to pull all this off. Where could he have gotten the means and the manpower for all that? Isaiah is smart, but he isn’t alone. _That’s_ what we’re missing.”

She nodded at him, knowing that she was right. She raised her eyebrows beseechingly, the hunch cementing in her gut. “I’ve been thinking about it, and…there’s just no way he could get his hands on the means to set himself up this way…unless he took it from his victims and his hostages. Think about it. We’ve gotta re-check their bank accounts, their credit cards, off-shore accounts—anything. He could be forcing them to bankroll him.”

“Nothing like that turned up missing from the hostages or the murder victims, Mills. What’s your point?” Watson cut in, but she looked intrigued.

“Then look _deeper_. He’s getting this shit from _somewhere_. His connections in the crime world, from his time in prison, maybe he planned his targets that way. His victims? Who are they, what to they do, who are they connected with?”

“We’re already _checking_ all of that.” Watson gritted through clenched teeth.

“No, we’re checking the money. Now let’s check the _goods_. Favors. Artifacts. Money doesn’t pay for everything. Some people deal in much more valuable stuff. What did these people _own_?”

Everyone stared at her. She felt the tension in the room pressing in on her, but she held her ground. Her eyes found Jacoby’s. He knew what she meant. He had her file, after all. He knew about Jenny, and Ichabod, and Corbin, and Frank, and the strange goings on in her tiny neck of the woods.

He hadn’t told her why he wasn’t doing anything about it yet, but she had a feeling they would cross that bridge before all of this was said and done with. At least, she damn well intended for them to. For now, he had given her a mission: do whatever it takes to catch the bad guy. So she was going to show them how they did things in Sleepy Hollow.

Jacoby let the silence linger for just a moment before nodding and muttering (without taking his eyes off Abbie’s): “Bergman.”

“I’m on it…” Bergman said determinedly and turned around in his seat to his bank of computers, pushing up his glasses and getting to work.

“Alright. We’ll play it your way, Mills.” Jacoby agreed, and she knew he understood the risk she was taking. He was definitely keeping her on her toes. He pointed a finger at Watson. “Watson, since you’re _so eager_ to be of use, you’re on the night shift with Bergman. I suggest you get some coffee and get crackin’. You call me the second you find something _useful_.”

“Yes sir.” Watson said without as much militancy as usual, looking quite close to chastised.

“Green—get your men back out there and keep searching. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll get stupid out of the blue.” Grim-faced Green, as Abbie had taken to calling him in her head, rallied his small field team and headed off to do some digging. Abbie had a mind to go with them, but Jacoby beat her to it.

“Everybody else, you’re relieved. Take a nap. Get some food. _Rendezvous_ at oh-eight-hundred if we don’t get a wakeup call. We got people counting on us. I mean _everyone_. You too, Mills.” He eyed her into silence. “Let’s move, move, _move!_ ”

Abbie gave a sigh of frustration, but she was glad that at least they had something to go on. The day wouldn’t be a total waste, if she could just be right about this. As soon as they found something for her to go on, she would get out there and hunt it down. She picked up her jacket, badge, and gun from the table where she’d set up camp the last few hours and headed out with Jacoby. Watson and Bergman were the only two left, save a couple of backup guys to keep an eye on things.

“Where to, angel?” Jacoby was asking as they finally stepped outside, the fresh night air greeting them with a cool breeze. She looked over at him as he fetched and lit a cigarette from his pocket. He realized she was staring pointedly and rolled his eyes. “Oh _Jesus please us_ , what is it with you women? It’s a compliment!” He chuckled tiredly and despite herself, she followed suit.

“Lieutenant Mills is a compliment, too.” She shook her head, smiling and lifting her hands. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Jacoby nodded in acquiescence, blowing cigarette smoke out through his nostrils. He gazed at her appraisingly for a beat. “You did good, Mills.” He told her finally, causing her to lose her smile and meet his eyes. “I can see all that damned potential Reyes was yappin’ about.”

“Today wasn’t that great.”

“It was a hell of a lot better than we’ve had since this thing started, though. That counts for something. A lot, I’d say.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna keep thinking. There’s something I’m missing…”

“Anybody ever tell you, you sound like a broken record when you’re cranky?” He deadpanned, taking another drag.

“Those people are still out there, sir.” She fixed him with a look that expressed every ounce of guilt and anxiety she felt, and he gave a long sigh. Just then, through his façade, she could tell that he felt the same way.

“Get some rest, Lieutenant.” Jacoby said, tossing his cigarette out. “Running yourself ragged doesn’t do anybody any favors. I’ve been there. We’ll pick up where we left off bright and early tomorrow. That’s an order.”

Abbie nodded, unable to argue with him. She was exhausted. And she’d missed a call from Crane. A _Face Time_ call, _that_ was new. She found herself suddenly very much looking forward to escaping to some hotel room, showering, and settling in for a long catch up call with her favorite eighteenth century dude. She’d been missing him all day. She had just seen him this morning, but after all the shit that went down today, that seemed like ages ago. She needed to hear his voice again. She’d never been able to bring herself to admit it to anyone, but she counted on hearing his voice. Crane could drive her crazy like nobody’s business, but he could also put her at ease like no one else could, simply by the sound of his smooth, eloquent way of speaking. He made her feel the way Corbin used to—safer. At home.

“You only have to tell me twice, sir.”

“Cut it out with all the ‘sir’ stuff.” He grumbled, waving his hand and leading her toward the parking lot. “Come on, I’ll take you to my hotel. Got you a spot there. We should stick close, anyway.”

Abbie suddenly remembered that she had been flown directly here, and didn’t have a damn thing to wear or brush her teeth with. “Uh—can I request a pit stop? Kinda wasn’t prepared to spend the night here.”

“Oh don’t worry about it,” Jacoby shrugged, his longer legs keeping him slightly ahead of her. “We brought in your stuff while you were in the war room. It’s in my trunk.”

Abbie was instantly pissed that they had entered her apartment without her knowledge and touched her things. But she knew there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Government agencies tended to do whatever the hell they wanted to. She was relieved, however, when she saw her emergency rucksack from her hall closet in Jacoby’s trunk. She was glad she’d decided to hold her tongue. She always kept it there, it was part of the basic training in Quantico—or at least, she’d read up on that part. Jenny had learned it from Corbin. However, leave it to F.B.I. agents to recognize the ‘drop your entire life and run for cover’ stash.

Jacoby winked at her when she retrieved it and slammed the trunk shut again. “Smart girl. Why’d you pass on the invitation to Quantico?” He asked as he opened the passenger door for her and walked around to the other side.

Abbie avoided his gaze, throwing her bag in the back seat before answering: “Something important came up.”

Jacoby barked with laughter and they both got in. He started the car and began to maneuver them out of the parking lot. “Well…that’s too bad, Lieutenant. You make a damn good addition to the team.”

Then he turned on some god-awful country music and drove them to their hotel.

Once he secured her with her room key, Jacoby offered Abbie a lazy salute as a goodnight and headed off to his own room two floors below her. This was the kind of hotel with balconies instead of hallways, and the night breeze swept her hair in her face as she inserted her key and went inside.

It was dark, and the air inside was stale. Abbie opened a window and threw her rucksack on the stiff mattress, sighing. She should eat, but she wasn’t hungry. She was just plain old tired. It had been a long night last night, and now a very long day. She had no idea what time it was, but she decided it was too late to put up a fight against sleep anymore. She could eat in the morning. She’d need it to face the next twenty-four hours.

She took a long, soothing shower and conditioned her hair, letting the damp coils air dry. She put on one of her old, oversized sleeping shirts (a Led Zeppelin shirt she’d sort of stolen from Corbin) and crawled on top of the bed, grabbing her phone from the side table. She couldn’t wait to hear Crane’s voice.

Before she could finish tapping in her unlock code, the phone buzzed with an incoming call from a blocked number. Her heart leapt into her throat. She knew instantly who it was, and she stared at the faceless avatar on the screen as her phone buzzed over and over in her hand. Snapping herself out of stunned paralysis, Abbie swallowed down her apprehension and answered the phone.

“Isaiah.”

“ _Good guess_ , Abbie.” came his gentle, chilling voice. “See how well you know me? You’ve got this in the bag.”

There was a thick pause in which she couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response, and then he spoke again. This time his voice was much colder, and unmistakably less gentle.

“ _Don’t_ you?”

“Somebody tell you otherwise?” She cracked, making an effort to sound nothing more than tired and unaffected. She had no idea if it would work, but she wasn’t going to let him know how much this version of him terrified her. “I got a reputation to uphold, here.”

“You’re stalling, Abbie.” He said impatiently, though Isaiah’s version of impatience sounded more like emotionless detachment. But he softened in the next breath, just a bit. “I would…love…to be us again, some day. But right now, I want you to answer the question. And don’t try to stall. You won’t be able to trace this call. Ever. I told you that.”

“Had to try…” Abbie muttered breathlessly, trying to think of another way to get him to talk. Okay. So stalling was out. It only seemed to annoy him. So she’d just be honest. Talk to him the way they used to, despite what he said.

“So tell me. Where do you think I am? Where will you start?”

“I’m stuck.” She shrugged at no one. “I’ve got some leads, but I’ve still got time, remember?”

There was bone-chilling silence for too long a moment, and then finally, he sighed. Long and hard, into the receiver. “You disappoint me, you know.”

“I’m trying, here. You’re the one who turned it into a game. And deprived me of my partner. You want me to come to you, it’s _gonna take some time_.”

“ _You don’t need him_ ,” Isaiah growled. There was another pause, and then: “You have until tomorrow. Ten o’clock.” His mood swings were a testament to his bipolar, frenetic mind. A mind she had little hope of saving. But it was a tiny little fragment of hope she would cling to with everything she had until it broke. “You must be _alone_.”

“And the hostages?” She couldn’t help rushing to add before he could hang up on her.

He paused again, causing another moment of chilly silence. Then: “I gave you my word that I wouldn’t hurt them.” Isaiah’s voice was so emotive just then, even somewhat accusatory. Soft-spoken, but cutting, as though he meant to say _‘I thought you knew me’_.

And that’s what this whole game was about. How well she knew him. How desperately he wanted them to be partners, hunting down clues together.

“Tell me where to start. Please, Isaiah. I’ll do this with you, alone, but you gotta throw me a bone, kid.”

“I’ll think about it.” He retorted. “Until tomorrow, ten o’clock. Tick, tock.”

He hung up.

Abbie sat there for about ten seconds, chilled to the bone in her sleeping shirt, before she forced herself to think. She dialed Bergman. “Hey. Isaiah just called this phone. Can you trace it? Yeah, I’ll wait. Call me back. Thanks.”

She hung up and stood to pace the length of the room and back, waiting. Part of her knew that he was right—they wouldn’t be able to trace the call. But she hoped. For some lead, _some_ little clue. He wanted her to connect with him the way she connected with Crane; she could tell. He gave it away with everything he said. But this notion wasn’t enough. _What_ , specifically, was she supposed to be looking for? _How_ was she supposed to connect? Calling him ‘kid’ didn’t seem to be doing the trick.

Her memory wasn’t as perfect or permanent as Crane’s, but she _did_ know Isaiah. And there were so many memories to choose from. But there was also her biased perception of their relationship. She had thought she was helping him, but in the end…she’d been wrong. And then she’d forgotten him. This was her comeuppance, perhaps. Karma is a bitch, isn’t that what folks say? First Isaiah, then Henry and Katrina…maybe these were all signs that some of the decisions she’d made — _they’d_ made—since she met Ichabod Crane could not always have good consequences. Since they met, they could only find the time to care about each other. Their ‘bond’ as Witnesses, as Crane called it, made them strong, but it also made them blind to how their relationship affected other people sometimes. She had forgotten about Isaiah, and Ichabod had had to sacrifice his only family to keep from losing her.

Abbie felt guilty and a little sick to her empty stomach. Bergman called back. “Dead end.” He told her dejectedly, his gruff voice almost sounding empathetic. “I can’t figure out how he’s hacking a signal, there’s no point of origin, it’s…inexplicable.”

“I figured. Thanks for trying, though.”

“You got it. Get some sleep, Mills.” Abbie appreciated his amiable approach to her. “Watson and I are doing some deep digging, like you suggested. We think we’re onto something. Fill you in at oh-eight-hundred.”

“Awesome. Goodnight, Berg.”

He chuckled and she smiled tiredly before hanging up. Her stomach still felt raw but she couldn’t really stand the thought of trying to force down food. At first, she had been really looking forward to calling Crane, but now…she just wanted to close her eyes and not think about any of this for a couple of hours. Just a couple of hours of sleep and then she’d suck it up and get back to work. She knew Crane was probably turning over every stone he could find in Shreveport that had to do with curses and serpents and African books of blood magic. He’d call her again the second he had an update or a moment to spare, she convinced herself.

She tossed her cellphone into the chair by the bed and crawled underneath the stiff covers. She wondered when the last time was that someone had slept in this bed. It was cold and the sheets smelled a little stale, like they hadn’t been touched in weeks. After some shifting and rearranging things, Abbie finally managed to fall asleep on her back, her damp hair nestled into a mound of pillows.

She sank down into a dark abyss…and for a little while, she was at peace…floating…finally relaxed.

Until, at what time she had no idea, her eyes popped open in the dark.

She was instantly seized with paralyzing fear. The air in the room felt frigid, but also very heavy. So heavy that it pressed her down into the pillows and mattress. She was unable to move. She glared in terror at the ceiling and then her eyes darted all around the dark hotel room.

There was something in here.

She knew it in her gut, but couldn’t see it. It was dark, though the lights of passing cars and the illuminated hotel sign cast shadows across the walls, making the darkened corners look almost cavernous. This wasn’t empty darkness, Abbie knew. Cold fear stuck in her throat as she struggled to wrestle herself out of the grip of paralysis. There was something, or someone, lurking in the shadows, watching her.

She suddenly felt the air in the room grow ten times more restrictive, making her feel as though she was being crushed, and she struggled to breathe. A cold sweat broke out across her hairline and sprouted in tiny droplets along her collarbones. Abbie breathed hard, her vision darting from dark corner to dark corner, until she finally spotted them.

Bright, emotionless green eyes.

Nestled in the dark, staring right at her.

Car lights fell across the room again, illuminating Katrina’s frightening apparition momentarily, before it was swallowed again by the darkness. All except those eyes, and that hair, rising in fiery curls and wisps around her shadowed face. _“Abigail…”_ came a hollow echo of a voice.

Abbie’s heart thumped viciously against her chest, but she couldn’t move an inch. The thing— _the **ghost** , holy shit_—was slowly moving forward. The air in the room wrapped Abbie’s body in an ice-cold vice grip as Katrina’s spirit stalked toward her, those eyes locked on hers. Hatred and anger burned in them. She rose up, hovering above the bed, and continued her advance.

Abbie began to hyperventilate as Katrina drew closer, floating above her, providing no escape from her eyes in the darkness. Her burning red hair moved as though she was floating in dark water as Katrina lowered herself down to Abbie’s trapped body. “Get away from me!” Abbie managed to choke out, her lungs heaving as they dragged air in and out as hard as they could.

 _God, no_ …her face was now emerging from the shadows… _oh god_ …so pale, white as the moon, with that red hair and those cold green eyes… _nooo_ …Abbie pleaded over and over in her mind, uselessly. Katrina’s horrifyingly void, evil face was revealed to her.

And the dead woman screamed in _Abbie’s_ face, her voice like a thousand bricks being dragged over solid concrete. _“YOU WILL DIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!”_

As Abbie’s heart leapt into overdrive, a dead white hand appeared, wielding a dagger, and stabbed downward.

Abbie woke up, shooting out of bed, falling in a heap to her knees on the cold hardwood floor. She dove for her gun sitting on the nightstand, and wheeled around, getting unsteadily to her feet. She turned this way and that, her hair in her face, her chest heaving, her gun aimed.

The terror from her nightmare (it was more than just a dream, she knew) was still with her. Her heart was still pounding and she could still feel those eyes on her, peering out from every corner. Chills ran all through her as she gradually calmed herself down. She breathed, finally lowering her gun, still examining the shadows, her heart quickening at the slightest sound.

When she was sure she was alone again, she turned and reached immediately for her phone. She dialed Crane, tears welling in her eyes against her will.

 

* * *

 

(Ichabod.)

 

 

Ichabod had stolen a moment alone before they took off to try, and fail, a ‘Face Time’ call with the Leftenant. She must’ve been hard at work, trying to solve her case with the F.B.I. Once again, he yearned to be at her side, or to have her here at his. He swallowed down his disappointment and set about devoting his attention to his own case, vowing not to call her again until he had news.

Naturally, Jenny had a friend in town that graciously provided them with the equipment they’d need to conduct a proper stakeout (or offensive, if needs be). They’d of course been unable to transport these items on their flight, not wishing to arouse any suspicions. That Ichabod had proven…troublesome…during the flight only confirmed their hunch to lay low was the correct one.

But now they were equipped with night vision goggles and various weapons, and the things they’d brought from their archives to aid them should they encounter supernatural activity. After all they’d learned, and with the increasing intensity of his dreams, Ichabod had a feeling they might.

They came to the edge of Randolph road, and Jenny slowed their vehicle to a crawl, shutting off the lights. They all three kept their eyes peeled for number two-two-five. The engine purred smoothly, the only sign of their slow momentum; fore it was hidden by the deep shadows being cast by rows of tall, thick trees lining the street on either side.

“There.” Ichabod said in a low, serious voice, pointing a slender finger to it the instant he spotted it rising out of cluster of tall trees. The Beaumont house. He had studied photographs from the Internet, and knew every detail of the impressive structure. The house was built well, a very long time ago. Having been a builder of homes himself, he admired the care and craftsmanship that was poured into the construction of the attic tower alone.

Jenny was clever to maneuver the car several feet from the house, deeper into the shadows. It wasn’t a home anymore. This block seemed to be occupied by small businesses that were formerly historic family homes. This part of town had been preserved and reopened to the public as tourist attractions: shops, small museums, cafes, and the like. All closed now. Or, at least, all but one. By appearances, it was not open for business of the candle-and-antiques-buying variety. But there was another, hidden patronage it welcomed.

They parked. And waited.

They observed two things within minutes: Though the place was supposedly closed, cars came and went. Cabs, mostly. Sometimes ordinary looking vehicles, but they never parked or stayed. People got out and went inside. Or came outside and got in. Secondly, the ‘people’ coming and going were mostly men. Ichabod sat in the back seat, watching the men walking up to a winding road, into a cluster of trees, beyond which the house stood. The ‘Beaumont Candle Boutique’, it was now called. Three impressive floors, and the attic. It had grown darker since they’d stopped, but Ichabod could still make out a single, round window at its peak, visible above the treetops.

“Okay,” Jenny said solemnly after two hours of observing. “I say we get inside, start snooping around.”

Ichabod and Frank nodded their agreement. They’d all dressed for the occasion. Well, Ichabod as best he could manage. He wore dark grey and deep navy blue, his hair partially pulled back, some of it remaining free to hang loose against his shoulders. Jenny wore a black ‘bodycon’ dress (in truth, it looked to Ichabod like a spare piece of fabric left over from another garment that she’d forced into some form of a ‘dress’) and black boots. Her hair was up in a messy bun and she had applied gloss to her lips. Frank had dressed as a businessman visiting from Philadelphia. They made an oddly matched, though somewhat convincing, trio.

“I say we get in, split up, and search each floor in one sweep.” Frank suggested.

“We should meet in the attic…” Ichabod muttered, his gaze rising again to the tower ascending through the trees. They both turned to look, too.

“Okay. Frank you take the first floor, I’ll take the second, Crane, you take the third.” Jenny checked that her gun was loaded and tucked it under her jacket. “Meet in the attic in twenty minutes, got it? We’ll hit the sex dungeon on the way in if we can do it without being spotted.”

“Let’s make haste. For every moment we lose, Katrina gains the upper hand.”

His final words propelled them out of the car. They bypassed the driveway, where cars were still coming and going, making their way around the gates, into the trees surrounding the property. They paused once they were near enough to their target to scope out a way inside without being seen. Jenny used her goggles to see through the darkness. Ichabod knelt beside her and did the same while Frank kept watch. Another marvel of the twenty-first century, being able to see in the dark. His keen eyes swept the lay of the land. Tonight’s clientele was being dropped off at the gate and went on foot from there, up the driveway and around the side of the house. They all bypassed the storefront, of course. This procedure was indeed familiar to the regulars, and seemed to have been well impressed on the outsiders before they arrived here. Strict rules of discretion were needed to keep this operation under wraps. Ichabod wouldn’t be surprised to learn that bribery of local law enforcement was involved, as well.

There was a bouncer at a door just around the back of the house. It led downward, to the ‘sex dungeon’. The bouncer looked trained in hand-to-hand combat, judging by his stance and build. He was also armed. Ichabod searched the side of the house, and found a small window at just below knee height, out of the bouncer’s line of vision. It had red curtains. It was surely a private room. The lights were out. Perhaps it was empty. “There…” he pointed it out to Jenny. She turned her goggles to where he was indicating and observed for herself. “That may be our point of entry.”

“Frank, think you can distract the bouncer for us?” Jenny nodded her agreement and turned to hand her goggles to the former captain, dressed as a businessman in need of a certain type of company.

“Piece of cake.” Frank straightened his very unimpressive tie and adjusted his fake spectacles. “How do I look? Stressed? Horny? Pathetic enough to pay for it?”

“Bingo.” Jenny mused, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, her eyes glinting mischievously in the dim light as she unabashedly dragged her gaze from his shoes to his lips.

“Oh, God’s wounds…” Ichabod griped, rolling his eyes and feeling very much the ‘third wheel’. “Perhaps we should _proceed_?”

“Ready to make it rain?” Jenny cracked to Frank as they buried the gear they’d need to leave behind under a bunch of stones.

“Let’s do this.”

They all three took to their missions with swift, shrewd focus. Frank joined the sporadic procession of men at the back of the house, and stalled the bouncer by pretending to be unable to find his identification. Ichabod and Jenny quickly snuck away to the side of the house, and Ichabod kept watch while Jenny broke into the window and opened it. They maneuvered their bodies inside and Frank miraculously found his forged Pennsylvania state driver’s license.

Annoyed, the bouncer allowed him inside.

Jenny and Crane found themselves inside a ladies lavatory. Beyond it, they could hear pounding dance music and layers of voices, both far off and nearby. They waited until the voices died away before Jenny turned to whisper at him.

“I’ll go first, make sure the coast is clear. I’ll knock when you can follow, deal?”

“Deal.” Ichabod whispered back, nodding as they approached the door.

Jenny gave him a look of confidence before she opened the door just an inch to peer through. She turned her gaze this way and that, the light casting a line down her face and body. After a moment, she nodded tersely that the coast was clear and slipped out. Ichabod waited for her signal, only opening the door himself when her soft knocking sounded out twice in the dark ladies’ room.

He stepped out into what looked like a large dressing room. It was very warm inside. The music was louder now, though still dense and muddy as it reached them through what sounded like several thick walls. The room was empty, but all the signs of the frenetic, chaotic energy that had occupied it moments ago were still there.

Scores of intricate, colorful, delicate garments were strewn about. Made with feathers and fringe and lace and leather and coupled with all manner of whips and chains, and…handcuffs. Some solid metal, some furry, some feathery, some red and shaped like hearts. Some bright green or pink. There were shoes of all different designs, thigh-high boots and platforms, strappy things that he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.

They were obviously in the changing room of the dancers who worked here. Ichabod ignored the heated flush that rose to the surface of his cheeks and followed Jenny through the room. He kept his head down as they hastily moved through, hoping to avoid anyone returning to the room before they could slip away unseen. A familiar scent stopped him just before they could escape, however, and he paused to inhale the air.

The room was full of scents: Sweat, leather, the heady musk of female arousal (his cheeks burned and his lips became dry but he ignored these reactions). There was also the scent of perfume. Several varieties, to be sure, but one in particular that he knew he had smelled before.

Jenny noticed that he had become distracted and turned back to glare at him impatiently. “Hey, let’s get a move on!” she hissed. “When that music stops, they could be coming back here any second…”

“I _know_ this perfume…!” Ichabod whispered distractedly, ignoring her. His long-legged stride propelled him back through the room, his nose searching, his eyes roaming.

Where had he smelled it? It stood out above all the others. Intensely sweet. Flowery. Almost…saccharine…

Then Ichabod spotted it. The bottle. It was an immaturely bright pink and yellow bottle that was labeled _‘PINK by Nicki Minaj’_. He stepped closer to the dressing area that it belonged to. The clothing there was all very small, brightly colored, and somehow…familiar to him. He could smell the scent most strongly as he moved toward the mirror, ignoring his reflection and now focusing on the picture that was taped there next to his own reflection. Jenny had crept back into the room and was glaring at him urgently, confused as to what he was up to. She simply watched him, however, her brow knitted as her eyes followed his and saw the picture.

They were in an underground ‘sex dungeon’ on the outskirts of Shreveport, but there was no mistaking that he had met the woman in the picture before. The very night before, in fact. She had an impressively endowed bosom, a bright smile, large blue eyes, and curly red hair. “Star….” Ichabod muttered, staring hard at the picture of her and the blonde woman, Amy, who’d been with her at Mabel’s Tavern.

“Did you just say _Star?_ Are you serious?” Jenny stepped forward and snatched the picture from the mirror. She gaped at it. Ichabod didn’t need to look at the photo again to know that he was right—the look in Jenny’s eyes was confirmation enough. “Holy shit. They’re in the coven.”

“Yes. It would seem only fitting that my encounter with them last night was not by mere happenstance.”

The music was coming to an end, they could both hear. “We gotta go. Let’s search the place, then come back for her ass if she’s back here.”

Ichabod hastily replaced the picture and followed Jenny out. They ended up in a maze of back hallways, all painted black and draped in wires and large, dusty curtains. They managed to hide themselves as various groups of scantily clad women skittered about the place, some shouting at each other, some holding their garments against their naked bodies for dear life. Ichabod pressed his body into the wall, trying to disappear in the shadows as two completely naked women passed himself and Jenny hiding behind a curtain.

Lastly, an older woman passed them by. She was dressed in a dowdy, full skirt and loose tunic, her thick brown hair falling into her eyes. She possessed a dour, slouching gate and her voice was quite near acerbic as she shouted after the other women: “ _FIVE MINUTES_ , alright Rachel?” Ichabod grimaced and Jenny suppressed a grunt as she continued sourly, “There’s payin’ customers out there, you know. Put a lid on it and earn back the money you lost us last week.”

Once they were all gone back the way Ichabod and Jenny came, they both escaped through another black curtain concealing a short hallway that gave way to the main chamber. The music was instantly clearer, this time the tune was much slower…and much more suggestive.

The place was dark, but strobe lights permeated the dimness, casting red, blue and gold beams of color across Ichabod and Jenny’s figures as they slipped through the room. The music pounded and the place was alive with a seedy, cold, altogether underhanded energy that made Ichabod uncomfortable. The room was scattered with men, their gazes dragging across the partially exposed bodies of the women who served them. Two women were dancing together on stage. They were most certainly _not_ performing anything close to the kind of burlesque he’d ever seen. Ichabod tore his eyes away from the scandalous scene just as Jenny paused about mid-way through the room. They had been walking along the wall, trying not to draw attention to themselves. She had to speak directly into his ear so that only he could hear her under the sensual, affecting music.

“There’s Frank.” She gestured to the bar, where Frank had been nursing a drink and chatting with the bartender. Now he’d spotted them, and was discretely excusing himself. He headed straight for the exit that was also near the men’s room. They were headed that way, too. “Once we’re clear, you head up to the third floor, I’ll take the second, Frank’s got the shop.”

“Agreed.”

The hypnotic tempo and bass beat of the song found their way into his bones as he followed Jenny’s dark, slim figure. He focused on the task at hand, even as thoughts of Abbie clung to the edges of his mind, threatening to distract him as the song’s lyrics licked at his heels. He could not wait to escape this room.

_“You're horny, lets do it…_

_Ride it, my pony.  
My saddle's waiting… _

_Come and jump on it.”_

 

The three spies slipped out through an emergency exit once Jenny cut the alarm wire. “Okay, meet in the attic in twenty minutes, _tops_. Be careful.” Jenny touched their faces before turning and making her way lithely up the stairs. Ichabod nodded at Frank and followed. For his part, Frank made his way into the dark candle shop.

All three floors were full of antiques, of all sorts of strange origins, and candles of every color, shape, and size. There was a kitchen and some bedrooms on Ichabod’s floor. Jenny’s floor held the bulk of the antiques. Everything from old tin coffee cups from the twenties to African figurines from the thirteen hundreds. Frank found candles for decoration, candles of every scent one could think of, and candles labeled as having “magical powers”. Candles for love, candles for prosperity, candles for communing with the dead ( _interesting_ ), candles for a little of _this_ , candles for a lot of _that_. None of them found any spell books, or any other clue connecting this home to a coven. Ichabod found no diaries or other incriminating pictures in any of the rooms. Only family photos that included the dour woman from the dungeon. Miss Yolanda Beaumont. They also included an elegant, gracious looking black woman that Ichabod knew could only be Mrs. Eunice Sinclair.

How such a lady should come to associate herself with such an unpleasant person for so long a time, and in so intimate a fashion, Ichabod could scarcely fathom. But then, remembering that his own marriage was built upon the greatest of secrets, he quickly concluded that perhaps even the best of friends could turn out to be much more than what they seemed. In both good and bad ways.

Twenty minutes passed and, finding nothing, the team finally regrouped at the foot of the narrow stair that led up to the attic.

The stairway was dark, illuminated only by a lone, yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling. The door was just visible to them before it disappeared into the shadows above them. There was a chill emanating from the space at the top of these stairs that instantly set the hairs peppering the back of Ichabod’s neck on edge. “We’ll find our answers in that attic…” he whispered, staring hard at the door concealing the mystery that eluded him. He was sure of it.

“Last one at the top’s a rotten egg.” Frank whispered back.

Ichabod led the way, and they crept slowly upward. The stairs creaked, but they knew most likely no one would come looking for them any time soon. They hoped. The pulsing music was very faint up here, but it could still be heard. They reached the top finally, and Jenny stepped forward to pick the lock. She worked at it for a few tense minutes, and finally the mechanism _clicked_.

The door creaked open a hair’s breath.

Decrepit, frigid air escaped and blew across to them. They all fought off the shivers, and Ichabod swallowed down his apprehension as he pushed open the old door. It creaked again as it went, revealing a large, dark, dusty space. There were candles everywhere, lined up along the beams and littering the floor in various states of melting. There was only one window, the circular one Ichabod had seen from the car. The faint, pale moonlight shone through its cracked surface.

They all stepped cautiously into the room. Ichabod bent and retrieved one of the candles, lighting it with the Zippo Abbie had given him for his birthday last year. The pale amber light warmed the atmosphere in the room a bit more, and he held it aloft as he used its light to examine the space.

Jenny and Frank flanked him and spread out to cover the far corners of the attic, following his lead and lighting candles of their own. He walked on into the center of the space, his eyes cataloging everything he saw. Candles, mason jars with all manner of creatures inside them. Chicken feet and feathers in wooden bowls, snake skins nailed to the wall, live mice in a small cage…

Ichabod noticed markings at his feet and realized he was standing on something inscribed into the wood there. He shone the candlelight downward, squinting as he took a few steps back. He was looking at a large pentagram, inside which there was a rendering of a black viper, bearing its fangs. The viper’s eyes were green, and it was wreathed in flame.

His heart pounded in his chest as the light drew his attention to another inscription, near the serpent’s tail. This one was not several decades old like the image of the Vengeful Serpent. It looked relatively fresh. The wood had chipped and peeled away under the strain of whatever instrument that carved those words into it. Those very familiar, very chilling words…

 

_THOSE WHOME GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER,_

_LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER…_

_KILL. GRACE. ABIGAIL. MILLS._

 

“There have indeed been séances held here,” he breathed, his entire body going cold with dread. He stared at the inscription, holding the candle absentmindedly as the reality of their accursed doom settled on him. _Abbie is in grave danger._ He could not stop the thought from tumbling around in his mind and heart.

Jenny had been rummaging around an antique desk in the corner, and had come upon a small silver key glinting in the moonlight. Frank had joined Ichabod at the center of the pentagram, ceasing his search through a stack of boxes that yielded nothing but ancient family documents. He stared at the jagged words scrawled into the wood.

“Hey. Found something…” Jenny announced, tearing their attention from the inscription.

She had the small key in one hand and was setting her candle down to search the desk and the area around it with the other. She tried to match the key to any keyholes she found along the way—boxes, drawers, an antique snuff box—until finally she found a large, heavy black wooden trunk hidden under some old blankets near the desk. There was a serpent, wreathed in flame, carved into the black wood on the trunk’s lid.

She tossed the blankets to the side, knocking over some candles and kicking up a cloud of dust. Frank stood around them, holding up both his and Ichabod’s lights as they helped each other drag it forward a bit, out of the corner. “ _Jeez_ , this thing is heavy for such a tiny key…” Jenny huffed when they’d done, wiping her brow and adjusting her small dress before kneeling again and inserting the key. She got the trunk unlocked and turned toward them to exchange looks before she opened it.

The trunk had an ominous energy about it that they could all feel. It mingled with the tense energy of the attic, making them certain that they had the right piece of antiquity.

Jenny reached inside and Ichabod held his breath.

She pulled her hand back holding an ancient looking, black, leather-bound book. At least, the substance this book was bound in _resembled_ leather. Ichabod had a sneaking suspicion that this was not quite the hide of cattle, but of another, specifically bipedal creature.

“Human skin.” Jenny confirmed, making a disgusted face as she handled the ancient tome gingerly. “This is _The Book of the Dead_. Has to be.”

Ichabod nodded his agreement. It was exactly identical to the photograph Frank had found on his Internet Goth blog. “I believe you are correct, Jenny. That is the Grimoire we seek.”

Jenny brought it to them and they hastily gathered around it, Katrina’s handiwork in the wooden floorboards momentarily cast aside. Abbie’s younger sibling opened it as Ichabod held his candle above them for better light. The book was inscribed in blood, and it held pages upon pages of dark spells and curses. Necromancy and human sacrifice and all manner of hideous deeds were concealed within these pages. Finally, they came to a spell that Ichabod was instantly drawn to. “Stop!” He whispered harshly, reaching a slender finger to mark a passage he wanted to read.

It was a séance incantation. It called on the spirits of witch-kind specifically. This coven controlled the realm of the dead, and used it to enact their vengeful activities. And sometimes, it seemed, it relied on the spirits of its deceased sisterhood to give it strength and cunning it could not possess in the living realm.

How its power came to rest in the hands of someone who had no known familial connection to Baba boggled Ichabod’s mind, still. But he focused on the text. “What is it, Crane?” Frank prodded him.

“This spell calls out to the spirits of witch-kind. Spirits trapped here on earth. Hanged, burned at the stake, or otherwise murdered. Betrayed by their own kind, or mortals they once trusted…” Ichabod muttered, grimacing. “This is the incantation they used to summon Katrina’s spirit.”

“Can it summon her now?” Jenny asked immediately.

Ichabod shook his head. “It’s dangerous.”

“Yeah but maybe we can get some answers. Reach out to her, remind her that you loved her. Reason with her? None of this was meant to happen like this…”

Ichabod looked into Jenny’s eyes. She was desperate to save her sister, but they both knew the truth. It _was_ meant to happen. Exactly this way.

“You think it’s worth a try?” Frank asked them both. “What’s the plan, here?”

Ichabod turned to stare now at the angry scrawling curse set into the old wood at his feet. She was coming for them, and she would not stop. Perhaps he could not lie to her, but he _could_ confront her. Demand that she give up her foolhardy vendetta. “I’ll do it. It’s written in Coptic.” He uttered, now glaring angrily at the words _‘Kill. Grace. Abigail. Mills.’_

Jenny hesitated only a moment before handing the book to him. He began to speak the incantation.

“ _Come fire, rain, wind and earth…come spirit. Come mistress…judge our worth. Come mistress…heed our call_ _.”_ He paused and swallowed, looking up into the dark rafters, before continuing: _“Use us. Hear us. Show yourself…”_

They all waited, holding their breath. Ichabod glared into the darkness, challenging it to come alive and come for him. Him, not Abbie. Never Abbie, as long as he drew breath. _Take me…_ he pleaded with it silently. Pleaded with her…he could swear, for only a moment, that he could feel her eyes on him from the shadows. But there was no movement. No sound. Nothing.

Jenny let out a sigh of relief that she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “Okay, _that_ was a bust. Let’s find what we’re missing about this curse.”

Ichabod exhaled and returned to her side. They found a passage concerning the curse of the Vengeful Serpent. The deadliest curse in these pages, it pronounced. Ichabod read through the passage and found the same information that had been stolen to fill the Grimoire in the archives. As he read through, he began to piece together several parts of the events leading up to this moment.

Star had been overwhelmingly familiar with him, but not only because she had been drinking. In fact, he wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that she had feigned her inebriated state to invade his personal space without arousing his suspicion. “Star touched my hair at the Tavern…” he recalled in vivid detail.

“Star?” Frank inquired, out of the loop. “The stripper with the fake boobs?”

“Mm, the very same…” Ichabod confirmed. “Jenny and I discovered that this is in fact, where she ‘strips’. And judging by the details of the ritual, a sample of DNA from the accursed ones must be obtained. Blood, hair, skin…”

“So the drunk strippers got your hair. What about Abbie?” Jenny muttered, studying the words even though she couldn’t read them.

Ichabod thought. He remembered Abbie finishing off the last of her beer before setting her empty glass down at the bar to retrieve another round for the table. And then Star’s unfortunate fall later. These two happenings were connected. There had been a number of casualties among the glasses littering the bar—Abbie’s being one of them. Had Amy stolen Abbie’s glass whilst Star flailed about on the ground at the husky gentleman’s feet? “Abbie’s beer glass.” He only said aloud, frowning hard.

Jenny scoffed. “Lafayette wasn’t joking. These chicks do not play around.”

“So that must mean they cast the curse back in Sleepy Hollow. You think those two could still be there?”

Jenny and Frank discussed the possibilities of the two witches (‘slash’ strippers) as Ichabod read over the details of the curse that had been cast on them. He was desperate for some answer—some clue—anything that would lead him to a way to reverse it. There was nothing. Only one last, menacing instruction that followed the incantation:

_Once cast, ‘tis unstoppable. Be warned, child…destroy it before it destroys you. Or the dead g’on get you._

“I found the missing passage.” He said flatly, closing the book. “It says ‘destroy it before it destroys you’.”

Jenny and Frank looked at each other, then looked at Ichabod.

“You were right, Jenny. It is unstoppable.”

And his eyes rose to the rafters, above their heads, where he felt a presence suddenly. And there, in the shadows, he could just make out the shape of a dark figure, hovering. Watching. Chilling him to the bone. The temperature dropped, and he heard the frost gathering and crystalizing on the attic window. “What is it, Icky…?” Jenny whispered, sounding terrified.

They could all feel her. She was there. Katrina.

“She’s here. She is watching us.” He confirmed in a low voice.

She moved forward just enough for him to see her eyes, staring down at him. He stared right back.

 _‘What do you want from me?’_ he thought, staring, ignoring his mounting dread.

And the longer he stared, the more intensely he felt her horrible, endless, torturous sorrow. Her venomous hatred. It poisoned his blood and flooded his senses. Her ire could not be reasoned with. It could not be stalled or distracted. And she began to advance on them.

“ _Run!_ ” Ichabod hissed, knowing in his gut that she intended to draw blood.

They all made for the door, Ichabod dropping his candle (it went out in a gust of wind as Katrina’s spirit flew down from the rafters) and clutching the spell book to his chest. The spirit moaned and shrieked, and he could feel her icy breath at the back of his neck as he crossed the threshold on Jenny’s heels and slammed the door shut behind him. “Ichabooood! _ICHABOOOOD! SHE’LL **DIIIIE!!**_ ”

There was pounding against the door, so hard that both Ichabod and Frank had to use the full weight of their bodies to keep it shut as Jenny hastily got the mechanism to _click_ again, telling them that it was locked once more.

“What do we do?” Jenny demanded in an urgent whisper once they’d made their way back down to the first floor. They were hidden between giant shelves filled with candles and souvenirs. “We have the book, but we can’t just leave them. They’ll come after it.”

“Crane? Got any ideas?” Frank prompted. Ichabod was still reeling from their encounter with Katrina’s spirit, not as a horrifying vision in a dream, but now, finally manifested in his conscious presence.

“We interrogate them. Their leader. Miss Beaumont.”

Jenny nodded slowly. “You think she’ll tell us something her stolen spell book can’t?”

“There’s a chance. It could save us time.” Ichabod opened his mouth to continue, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. His pulse leaping to life, he fetched it and saw that it was a ‘Face Time’ call from Abbie.

He turned away from them and held his phone before him, turning the volume down before answering it.

“Abbie?”

Her beautiful face appeared, but her eyes were brimming with barely restrained tears. “Hey, Crane.”

Her voice was steady, but being able to see her face this time gave him the benefit of observing that she was attempting to hide how frightened she was. “What’s happened? Where are you?”

She gazed into his face, and she sniffed. “You first. Is that Jenny and Frank back there? What are you three up to?”

“Hey Abbie…” Jenny waved. Frank turned from his stance keeping watch to offer Abbie a small nod.

“We’ve infiltrated the Beaumont home. We’ve retrieved the book. Among other things…” He couldn’t bring himself to divulge their encounter with Katrina’s spirit just yet. Or that they still had no means of putting an end to this nightmare. He was far more concerned with the reason for her call and the uneasy look in her large, beautiful eyes. “Tell me, please. What happened?” Ichabod insisted in an urgent whisper.

She gazed at him for a long pause before finally wiping her face and laughing cheerlessly at herself.

“Well, for starters, your late wife decided to pay me another visit.” She chuckled again, shaking her head and avoiding his gaze. “It was some pretty scary stuff. I thought I was a goner for a minute, there.”

“What did she do to you?” Ichabod demanded, trying with all his might to restrain the anger boiling in his veins.

“She told me that I was going to die.” Abbie said it with such casual acceptance that it infuriated him even further.

“I am coming to Chester.”

She crushed her eyes shut, tears finally escaping to slide their way down her soft cheeks. “No, Crane. Don’t.”

“Abbie, _this is not up for debate_.” He ground out through his teeth. “Can’t you see that being separated this way only puts you in _more_ danger?”

“That’s the other thing, Crane. Isaiah called. Look, if you come here, and he gets wind of it, he’s going to kill a lot of people. Not to mention, you coming here puts _you_ in danger. He’ll…he’ll kill you too.” She insisted, her voice breaking, her gaze imploring.

But he could see that she needed him. She could no longer hide herself from him. It saddened him that it had been these circumstances, putting a strain on her mental and emotional fortitude, which had finally forced her to let her walls down. She looked more vulnerable now than he’d ever seen her. But he could do nothing to comfort or protect her _here_ , standing in an empty candle shop in Shreveport.

“You forget that I was a spy for General Washington.” He said gently. “I know how to move through the world unseen if I must. Please…trust me.”

“Not yet, okay? Just…keep digging. And maybe watch the news.” Her sullen joke was lost on him, but then she frowned and maneuvered her phone away from her face for a moment. “Damn, it’s Jacoby. I gotta take this. Listen, I’m sorry I freaked you out. I guess I just needed to see your face. I feel better now. Katrina doesn’t scare me. I’ll be in touch.”

She hung up before he could interject.

Ichabod stared at his phone for some odd seconds before he remembered where he was and what he was in the middle of. When he turned back to face the darkened candle shop and his two partners, he could see that they both already knew what he was going to tell them.

“There is work still left to be done here.” Before he could finish, Jenny stepped forward.

“Yeah, and we got this. Go to Abbie.”

“Are you certain…?” Relief flooded through him, but he also felt guilty at the thought of abandoning his friends in the midst of a dangerous mission. A faint plan was forming in his mind, however, and it grew stronger the longer he thought about it. They hadn’t much time.

Jenny and Frank nodded. “We’ll get the leader, Yolanda. Make her talk. Create a distraction, slip out of here with the book. No muss, no fuss.”

They seemed resolute. Thank heavens. “Jenny, may I ask another favor of you?”

He told them of his plan, and with some hesitation, Jenny made a quick phone call to her friend Lafayette. Ichabod and Frank kept watch, listening out for any movement, either of the spirit or human variety. Once done, she nodded that everything was all set. “He’s gonna call you when he has it. I gave him your number. Take care of my big sister, Crane.”

“Thank you.” Ichabod grasped her hands and kissed them. “I promise you, I shall protect her with my life.”

They split up. Frank and Jenny went back down to the ‘sex dungeon’ to hunt the members of the coven, and Ichabod slipped out through a window at the front of the house, jumping down into a bushel of thorny bushes. He dusted himself off and made his way around the house, joining the procession of thoroughly sexed up men leaving the establishment. He nonchalantly hailed a cab and was gone without being noticed.

He went back to the hotel to retrieve his things before heading to the dreaded airport. As he was hurriedly packing, his received a phone call from an unknown number. He answered it, and a deep, flirtatious voice spoke his name.

“Ichabod Crane?”

“Yes. Mister Lafayette, I presume?”

“You ‘presume’ right, boyfriend. Jenny told me about you and her sister. Cursed, huh? That’s some fucked up shit.”

He was both embarrassed and intrigued by the man’s familiar manner. “It is indeed…‘some fucked up shit’. And I am in need of something equally…‘fucked up’ to gain any fighting chance of surviving it. Can you help me?”

“I got just what you need, sugar. This spell’s been passed down from my great grand-mama, so don’t you go sharing it with nobody, you hear?”

“Understood. Your family secret is safe with me, Lafayette.”

“You sound like you are handsome as _hell_. I love that accent. Got a pen and paper handy, pretty boy?”

Ichabod graciously thanked Lafayette for the compliment and wrote down the spell that he would use to protect himself and Abbie from the curse once and for all. He hoped, he prayed, that it would work. Or if not, he prayed that Jenny and Frank could glean some scrap of a lead that would help them fight this together.

Ichabod left the hotel and headed to the airport armed with the spell and naught more than a fierce drive to make it to Chester, Pennsylvania as quickly as possible. Alone. Determined. Utterly, foolishly in love.

 

* * *

 

 (Jenny. / Frank.)

 

 

“ _That’s_ your plan?” Frank raised an eyebrow at Jenny. She could barely hear his voice over the pounding music. They stood in the shadows by the bar, pretending to be flirting. Except they didn’t really have to, which was a bonus. Jenny tried to blend in, appear as though she was just one of the girls, though she knew they wouldn’t get away with it for long. They needed to make a move soon. They had the book, and once they went after the head witch in charge, things were going to move quickly.

“Yeah, you got a better one?”

Frank smirked and shook his head. “Nope. Just making sure you actually wanna go through with this.”

She was gorgeous, and that dress looked amazing on her. But she also had a gun hidden under her jacket and Frank knew when Jenny was ready to kick some ass. It turned him on and he stole a kiss. She was caught off-guard, but allowed him to continue, kissing him back enthusiastically. When he released her mouth she grinned.

“Ready? On my mark, I’ll head for the back. You follow in thirty seconds.”

“Can we really stop this thing?” He couldn’t help asking before releasing her. She paused, frowning. The music was changing to something like a ballad, though it was some strange dance remix. “Or Crane, with his dream bonding plan?”

Jenny shook her head, not really sure how to respond. They still had a mission at hand, and she didn’t want to let Crane or Abbie down by being unsure or hesitating. “I don’t know for sure, Frank. I just know we have to try. Crane’s gonna protect Abbie, no matter what. So let’s help him out with that. Any way we can.”

“Think he’ll finally tell her the truth?”

“He better. He’d be a dumbass not to. Let’s get this done, Cap.”

Frank let her go and she unfurled herself from being pressed against him. She winked at him and made her way to the back, where she disappeared through the curtain leading into the maze of hallways.

He waited exactly thirty seconds, then followed her.

It was pretty moody in the main dungeon, but backstage took that up a few notches. The walls were painted black, and at first he could scarcely see his hand in front of his face. But his eyes soon adjusted to the light and he eventually caught sight of Jenny glancing back at him as she unsheathed her gun and crept through the halls towards the back room.

He followed, readying his own weapon, his gaze scanning his surroundings as he went.

Jenny waited until she heard the voice she was looking for. The sour, cutting voice of one Yolanda Beaumont. And she heard it, alright.

“Why haven’t you heard from Star yet?” She demanded of someone. “The longer that girl takes to report, the more anxious the spirit gets. I can feel it. Something is disturbing the energy in the realm.”

“Even with the book, we can’t do anything until the spirit returns to instruct us, you know that, mistress.” That someone replied meekly. For a bunch of strippers, they sure talked like they were huddled in a church somewhere wearing hooded robes. This place was a trip.

“Yes I _know_.” Yolanda growled. “But time is of the _essence_. The full moon draws closer, you idiotic children! If we don’t get our hands on that book, we’ll have missed our chance to merge our powers with the spirit’s, and all of this will be for nothing! I’m tired of draining these clueless losers of their life force and picking their pockets for petty scraps. I want that _power_. I want that book! And all the others!”

“Oh, don’t worry about the book, bitch.” Jenny said, stepping into the room, gun drawn. “You’re never gonna get your slimy paws on it, so you might as well give up the ghost.”

Frank was right behind her, and together they held each of the seven women scattered about the room in their sights, guns trained to kill. They were all strippers, save Yolanda. All but Amy and that Star chick were there.

Yolanda glared at Frank and Jenny, seemingly unaffected by their sudden entrance.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

Jenny stared at her. She looked like your run of the mill, hippie candle shop owner. Not a magic-wielding Madame with a mean streak. But her eyes were cold and calculating in a way that told Jenny she was not to be fucked with. That was fine. Jenny had a few tricks up her sleeve, too.

“We’re none of your business.” The youngest Mills retorted, gripping her gun confidently. “Just friends of Abbie Mills as far as you’re concerned. You know, the cop you and your groupies cursed?”

A sly smile crept to the edge of Yolanda’s thin mouth. “Ahhh. You’re the sister, Jenny. Right?” Her sharp gaze cut over to Frank. “And you must be the disgraced man of the people. Captain Frank Irving, yes? Or should I say _former_ captain? The one who failed to protect his daughter from being possessed by a demon?”

“What did you say?” Frank demanded, taking a step toward her, anger flashing in his eyes at the mention of Macey.

Jenny held out a hand for him to stand down. It didn’t matter how they knew those details. Yolanda was stalling; trying to distract them. She was a lot cleverer than she looked.

“So this is your game, huh?” Jenny spoke up, doing some stalling of her own. “You use your powers to dupe these poor suckers out of their money and—I’m sorry, did you say _life force_?” She scoffed loudly, whistling low. “Wow. You are a real piece of work, _Yolanda_.” Jenny exaggerated the syllables in the woman’s name, a defiant gleam in her eyes.

Yolanda smiled bitterly. “What would _you_ know of power, child?”

“I know you stole yours from the rightful owner of this house you ruined with your succubus dungeon.” Jenny shot back. “What do you bet Eunice would think of all this? How about the rightful owner of the Grimoire in your attic? Baba?”

At the mention of Eunice’s book, the attic, and Baba, Yolanda’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “ _You filthy little shit!_ Give me back my book!”

Yolanda had surged forth, causing alarm and chaos to ripple through the room. Frank subdued the other members of the coven with his gun pointed at each of them in turn. Jenny caught Yolanda right at the middle of her forehead with the barrel of her gun, her eyes locked on the older woman’s like a heat-seeking missile.

“You move one inch, I’ll blow your head off. Please. Try me.”

“What do you want?” Yolanda growled.

“Tell me how to reverse the curse you put on my sister!” Jenny demanded, cocking the trigger.

Instead of an answer, the vile woman offered Jenny a gravelly peel of laughter. “Go to hell, _Mills_.”

“You first.”

“There is nothing you can do to save your sister.” One of the other women spoke up. She sounded eerily like some fake Marilyn Monroe, and kinda looked like one too. She was dressed in nothing but a shiny gold bikini and red platform heels. There was an old soul in her eyes, but she was just a kid; she couldn’t be older than nineteen. “The curse is unstoppable. The spirit made no mistake in her request. Your sister will die. Along with her lover.”

“The man out of time…” Yolanda whispered, tearing Jenny’s attention away from the strange girl in the gold bikini. “He’s doomed. You’re _all_ doomed. You think your guns can save you? Our mistress is strong…stronger than you can imagine. You cannot stop her. You cannot stop _us_.”

“There’s a way.” Jenny refused to believe them. “ _Tell_ me!”

“Jenny…maybe we should skedaddle before someone comes looking…” Frank could see that Jenny was frustrated and becoming desperate. He could also see that this Yolanda chick didn’t seem too bothered by their weapons. She was a witch, after all. She looked like she was holding back. Toying with them. That wasn’t a good sign. Things would get ugly if they didn’t find a way to retreat unscathed now.

But Jenny wanted answers, and she wasn’t leaving without them. “Tell me, or I will shoot this place the fuck up. And then you’ll have to tell the cops.”

Yolanda laughed again. “There are cops on my payroll enjoying the show right now, bitch.”

Jenny shrugged, her gun still trained right between the evil woman’s eyes. “Sure there are. But you can’t afford the entire police department, can you? I make enough chaos and you better believe they’ll be all over this place.”

There was silence in the room, only filled by the dense echo of the pounding dance music beyond these walls. They only had until the song was up, and then more girls would be back here, and Frank and Jenny would lose their advantage.

“Destroy it before it destroys you. That is the only way you can stop it.” The head witch breathed with grim satisfaction. “Now give me back my book. I won’t ask again.”

Jenny stared at her, knowing they were running out of time. “Tough shit.”

She raised her gun and fired a shot into one of the mirrors.

The glass shattered and the women all shrieked in surprise. Jenny made a run for it, Frank close on her heels. Yolanda screamed in another language, and suddenly a wall of fire blocked their exit through the halls back out into the main room.

Jenny fell back, but Frank caught her and set her upright again as the fire got too close for comfort. “You won’t escape here!” Yolanda was screaming. The women all joined her side as Jenny and Frank scrambled for the bathroom.

Yolanda began chanting in a language Jenny didn’t recognize (probably Coptic), and soon they all chanted with her, resembling some menacing, sleazy circus trapeze act. A huge, black shadow began to rise out of the flames behind them, and their eyes all went totally black, save the gleam of some kind of wicked zeal. They chanted, banning together against the two spies. Panicked, Jenny shot at them, but her bullets seemed to bounce off the air and ricochet into the walls.

“Let’s go!” Frank shouted as the shadow began to form a huge snake.

He grabbed Jenny and they ran for the ladies room, locking themselves inside and making a dash for the window that was still open. Frank hoisted Jenny up and pushed her through, just as the door began to raddle and shake, and smoke began to fill the room through the cracks and crevices surrounding it. The force of each impact left two huge holes identically spaced apart, every time, all over. Frank could just make out the flash of shadowy fangs piercing the wood with each impact in an effort to tear the door down.

Goddamn, those bitches had sicked a giant spirit viper on them.

 _“Give me back my boooook!”_ Yolanda’s suddenly huge voice boomed, rattling the door so hard that he could hear the wood splintering.

Frank got himself through the window and they hauled ass into the trees. They could hear a lot of noise and a chorus of voices behind them as they skidded towards their mound of stones. They’d hear police sirens soon if they didn’t get the hell out of there. Frank retrieved their gear and after a few minutes of running, they finally made it to the car.

Jenny got in, Frank right behind her, and started the car. Without looking back, she peeled off towards the main road, her heart pounding and her lungs burning.

She called Crane when she had calmed down enough to fetch her phone from her jacket pocket. Frank watched her and the road in turns as she listened to the phone ringing. Ichabod didn’t answer. He must’ve been maneuvering through the airport. He was determined to get to Abbie.

She left him a voicemail.

“Crane, it’s Jenny. Listen—you have until the full moon. Do whatever you can. We stole the book from the coven, but Yolanda and her troupe of psycho _Lady Marmalade_ dancers are gonna come after it. They don’t just want this one. They want them all. We’re headed back to Sleepy Hollow to make a stand and figure out how to stop this thing. Call me as soon as you get this.”

They drove back to the hotel. Once in their room again, Jenny paced back and forth, trying to think. “We can’t stay here too long. They’ll come looking for us once the cops are done with them. We’ve got until morning, if that.” Frank watched her, wishing she could relax enough to look at him.

“We can do this. We have two Grimoires now. That’s gotta count for something. Right?”

“I don’t know, Jenny.” Frank sighed, being as honest as he could. That was their agreement. She finally stopped pacing and looked at him. She looked sad. Worried. Stressed. He felt bad for her, and for Abbie and Crane. For them all. This was a mess. “I honestly don’t know…”

Jenny deflated somewhat, suddenly looking as exhausted as he knew she felt. She walked into Frank’s arms and he held her securely against him. They didn’t speak, but they both silently prayed that Crane’s plan—or whatever they could do back at home base—would work.

They were running out of time.

 

* * *

 

(Abbie. / Ichabod.)

 

 At about four in the morning, Abbie was jostled awake by the sound of hard knocking on her hotel room door.

 _Ugh_ , it must’ve been Jacoby. Something must’ve happened at headquarters. Maybe they’d found something.

After hanging up with Crane, Abbie had fought off sleep for as long as she could. She pored over crime scene files from each of the murders, looking for clues among what they knew of the missing, racking her brain for things she knew about Isaiah that could help her solve this thing. But after a while, she found her eyes closing on their own and she eventually lost the will to stay awake. Abbie fell asleep sitting up in bed, her laptop still open on her lap and her bed littered with files.

Now she dragged her eyes open and sat up, startled. The knocking persisted. “Jacoby?” The young lieutenant called out, still half-asleep, shoving all the stuff off of her lap and getting out of bed. She stumbled groggily around the dark room, looking for her pants. “Hang on, I’m coming! You could’ve just called…”

“Leftenant?” Another, much more familiar voice rang out, booming through the cheap wood of the door, shaking her soul. Not Jacoby. “Abbie!”

Abbie stood upright, abandoning the search for her pants, her hair falling into her eyes. Crane was here.

Crane was _here?_ _Why was Crane here?_

He knocked again. And again she heard his deep, urgent voice through the door. “Abbie, I know you’re inside. Please, open the door.”

She felt sudden relief flood her from head to toe. Then she felt anger spike at her temples. And…fear. There was just a little fear of going to open that door. When she saw his face over that Face Time call, even draped in shadow as it was, she had wanted to ask him to come so badly. She needed him. She missed him.

But he was in the middle of something important and she couldn’t bring herself to put him in any more danger than he was in already. Or to face him, _for real_. She wasn’t ready yet. Why did he come? She had specifically told him _not_ to.

It was too late to hide, now. She had to face the music.

Abbie turned and walked toward the door in the dark, smoothing her giant shirt and running her hands through her hair, trying to tame her still slightly damp curls. Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking. Crane was on the other side of that door, and she had to open it and face him. After all that had happened, after everything they’d said to each other. After being scared half-to-death, wanting nothing more than a hug from him and to hear the comforting sound of his voice.

She unlatched the top lock slowly, then turned the bottom lock over, finally opening the door.

His radiant blue eyes found hers immediately, and she was floored.

He was so tall, dressed in dark blue and gray, one hand gripping the door frame, the other carrying a large black satchel bag full of his things. His hair was partially pulled back, but some of it had escaped its tie and fallen into his eyes, blown around by the chilly wind that had picked up overnight. He was angry. His lips were pressed into a hard line, as was his brow, reminding her of the imploring look he wore in the cab only the night before. She felt her nipples harden against her will, and had to lower her gaze.

“Would it be a grave imposition to invite me in, Leftenant?” He said coldly, causing her eyes to fly back up to his in a flash. He had some nerve.

She bit her lip defiantly, and he clenched his jaw, stepping forward, devouring her personal space. His musky, windswept scent invaded her senses and clouded her mind. He glared at her. He was not backing down.

“Abbie. _Let me in._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what happens next...
> 
> :p


	9. together we live, asunder we die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod had always imagined a far less strenuous set of circumstances to set the stage for what he was about to do, but none of that mattered now. They were in danger, and he was finally here. It was now or quite possibly never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're not reading this at work...

 

> _I’m giving you a night call_
> 
> _to tell you how I feel_
> 
> _I want to drive you through the night_
> 
> _down the hills_
> 
> _I’m going to tell you somethin’_
> 
> _you don’t want to hear_
> 
> _I’m going to show you where it’s dark_
> 
> _but have no fear_

 

-London Grammar, “Nightcall”

(Kavinsky Cover)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(Continued.)

 

 

“Abbie. _Let me in._ ”

 He stood towering over her, loose locks of wavy brown hair in his face, glaring. This was not the Crane she was safe with. This Crane had her heart pounding in her chest and her clit quivering. But she couldn’t let him know it. Not yet. She wasn’t ready.

Abbie stepped back and adopted an air of phony nonchalance, although she was very annoyed with both her body and him for what he did to it. “ _Come on in_ , Crane.”

She opened the door wide so he could walk through. He strode across the threshold, sweeping past her, his imposing form seeming to shrink the space in the room.

Ichabod was relieved to see that she was alive and well, for the most part. He could also tell that she was still shaken but fatigued, which meant she was going to be very stubborn.

When she finally allowed him entry, he was grateful for a moment where he wouldn’t have to look directly at her. He had to gather himself. He’d been holding back for months now. He couldn’t take this unbearable silence a moment longer. The truth was in his eyes, his body language, his voice. There was very little he could do to hide it. He had to try to calm down, else the second he turned around to face her again, he would be striding across the room to force her against the wall with his hands roaming everywhere.

After flying to Philadelphia and scrambling to catch a bus to Chester, Ichabod had taken a cab to this hotel, his mind on nothing but reaching her. He’d been so anxious to get to her that many he encountered likely considered him a madman. He certainly spared hardly an ounce of courtesy; such was his focus on making it here to her doorstep. Now that he’d finally arrived, all his frustration with hiding his feelings for her and his worry for her wellbeing were clamoring to be set loose. He couldn’t stop himself from pounding on the door.

He would have to confess exactly how he’d found her, as he knew she would surely ask, but for now he had to command her attention. Ichabod had always imagined a far less strenuous set of circumstances to set the stage for what he was about to do, but none of that mattered now. They were in danger, and he was finally here.

It was _now_ or quite possibly never.

When she’d opened the door, he was struck with the sight of her standing there, looking every bit as enticing as in all of his dreams. He was so frustrated with her, but she was so… _impossibly beautiful_. Small as ever, swallowed up by another one of her sleeping shirts, her skin glowing a deep brown, her large eyes glinting in the moonlight. _And her hair._ It looked just as it had in his latest dream, but _this was no nightmare_. Coiled, shining, and jet-black. Falling around her face to crown her shoulders. Heat fluttered in his chest. He had wanted to pick her up and carry her into the hotel room, but he held back. His desperation, under tight control, likely resembled anger. He knew she thought he was incensed. He was not inclined to disabuse her of that notion just yet. Perhaps it would force her to stand down, just this once.

Abbie closed the door behind him and Ichabod ran a hand through the hair that had escaped from the tie holding some of it in place. He set his bag down near the bed, observing that it was a mess, and finally turned to face her. _Mercy, but she was captivating._ He had been aching to be in her presence again from the moment she’d left the previous morning. He wanted to touch her, but he could not. Not yet.

She spoke first. Of course, she asked the question he knew she would, breaking the silence.

“How the hell did you find me?”

Ichabod felt an instant pang of guilt, but swallowed it down again. “I…may have charmed the very obliging young deputy working at the dispatch desk to…put a trace your phone.” He finally confessed, referring to the new dispatch clerk, Deputy Justine Meyers, from the Sleepy Hollow P.D. She had somewhat of a ‘crush’ on Ichabod, he remembered Abbie telling him once after a very awkward and confusing exchange. He felt guilty for it, but it had garnered the desired outcome, and so he could not entirely regret it.

“ _Crane!_ ”

“ _You left me no choice._ ” He refused to apologize for his drastic actions.

“I didn’t _ask_ you to come here,” she said through clenched teeth. She crossed her arms, and he noticed as she shifted to her defiant stance that her legs were bare. He took a deep breath, tearing his eyes from her smooth skin, standing his ground as she kept on. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I said exactly the opposite. Why can’t you just _trust me_ to handle this?”

“You know that is _not_ what this is.” He offered a low retort, his expression deadly.

Her heart was pounding and she swore he could see it. She felt so exposed to him again, but this was unlike any other time. Her façade was totally gone. It was too early in the morning and too much had happened for her to even attempt to hide her emotions from him. Her desire. Just like the morning before, his body was like a magnet drawing her toward him. She stood firm, resisting it with all her might. He looked damned good, and somehow his anger was a turn on. But he was right. This wasn’t about trust, or his safety, or hers—not really.

Yes, she knew; the anticipation of it formed a knot in her throat. Crane was determined to do this. Right now.

“Crane...” She tried again, avoiding his gaze, unable to think of anything else to say, how else to stop him. _‘Not yet, I’m not ready,’_ she wanted to plead, but she trailed off into breathless silence instead.

It was too late. Crane started. _Boy_ , did he start.

“Did you think, _for_ _one second_ …” he cut into her, his voice sharpening with each word, “that I would stand idly by whilst you _MARCH TO YOUR DEATH?_ ” He shouted then, and Abbie blanched from her face to her toes, taken aback. Was he really yelling at her? She wanted to snap back at him so badly, but he kept on, not allowing her the space to interrupt him. “Do you think so little of my feelings for you that you honestly believed I would not do everything in my power to protect you? Have you forgotten our bond _?_ That we are _meant_ to face these evils _together?_ ”

“This isn’t your fight, Crane. I can take care of _myself!_ I’m doing my _job_.” Abbie shouted right back. “ _You wanted your space_.” She raised her hands in surrender, her eyes wide with anger. “Well hey, you got it. You don’t get to treat me like I’m suffocating you one minute and then push me around like I’m some _hard-headed_ _kid_ the next!”

He balked, his mouth falling open and his eyes going wide with shock. “ _I_ pushed—? _You_ have been pushing _me_ away for months!”

“You said I was suffocating you!”

Fed up, he marched toward her, backing her into the wall by the door. He was in her face, his blue eyes on fire. Abbie lost her breath, staring up at him, feeling trapped. His expression had lost all of its anger but none of its intensity. His voice was deeper than she’d ever heard it before. “No. I asked you to _see me_. Really see me. Look, now. I do not require space, Abbie. I want _you_.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing, but he gave her no time to react. Ichabod, so overcome with desire and frustration, reached down to grip her by the shoulders, pulling her into him. She was _so warm_ , and _so soft_ against him. He was going to lose the battle for his self-control; it would be swift, and it would be a massacre. She looked stunned, trapped, and so beautiful. Ichabod spoke softly but carefully, resolutely.

Now he wanted her to _hear him_.

“When I told you that I choose to forge my fate with yours, I didn’t mean only in service to our quest as Witnesses. Abbie…you are my _world_. My life. My heart. This _is_ my fight. My only rightful place is at your side.” He shook his head at her, his brow knitting as his eyes roamed all over her face, already having perfectly preserved it in his mind. He became suddenly emboldened, and threw caution to the wind. “How can you not see how much _I fucking love you_?”

Abbie’s mouth dropped open when she heard him curse in plain twenty-first century English for the first time since she’d known him. Her entire body was tingling from head to toe. Her pussy was throbbing and her panties were wet. Her nipples were hard and Crane looked so goddamned good. _Felt_ good, holding her tightly against him.

And he had just told her that he loved her.

She couldn’t help smiling, tears welling in her eyes. “Say that again?”

Ichabod smiled back, raising an eyebrow at his beautiful, infuriating Leftenant. “I love you, Abigail Mills.”

Abbie cocked her head a little, still smiling through her tears. “I didn’t quite catch that. One more time?”

Instead of answering, Ichabod leaned down and kissed her, unable to wait a second longer. As soon as his lips touched hers, they both melted into each other. He felt a heavy, invisible burden lift from him as his hands roamed from her arms to caress the rest of her supple body. Lord, this was _finally_ happening. He had finally told her the truth, and now he was finally free to hold her, _mmmm_ to kiss her sweet lips. He closed his eyes and set about tasting them. They felt so luscious as he claimed them slowly, and then more urgently. And gracious, it was exquisite. Her lips were like an intoxicating tonic; he could not stop kissing them; feeling them crash into his and peel away, moist and soft as angel cake.

This was _real_.

Abbie was in his arms, her heart fluttering, her breasts pressed into him, her body heat thawing his rigid frustration, reeling him in. He was utterly hypnotized by the sinfully addictive fullness of her dark pink lips. He kissed her again and again as his hands found their way underneath her shirt.

He’d spent so long coiled like a spring. Now he felt free to release all that tension. And he was ravenous.

Abbie’s warm skin was heaven on earth under his fingertips. More tantalizing than he could’ve dreamt. Ichabod groaned against her lips and rolled his hips into her, reveling in the feel of her small, overheated body pressing into his increasingly hardening erection. He dipped his tongue inside of her cool mouth, circling it slowly with hers, kissing her with a passion so great that it burned in his chest, begging for escape. “I love you…” he broke their kiss to breathe huskily against her sumptuous lips.

“I love you too, Crane.” She whispered, her eyes large and full of surprise, hope, and tenderness. She spoke it so softly, as if she was afraid he would reject such an admission. She laughed quietly again, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Damn. _I really do_. I love you _so much._ ”

Then, her eyes lowering to his lips, Abbie gave in to her gargantuan desire and kissed him back. She loved him. All six feet of him. All hair and brilliance and intensity and all Crane. All _hers_.

Her small hands found their way into his hair and she hungrily licked her way into his mouth, kissing him fervently, causing his arousal to twitch and jump with need. Ichabod ran his hands along her thighs and gripped her there, hoisting her up against the wall so that she could wrap her legs around him as they kissed slowly, deeply. As soon as she had her legs around his hips, he rolled his hard, thick length along her steaming center, kept from him by her enticingly thin panties and her adorably oversized t-shirt. Her words made Ichabod so hard that he was blind with desire, kissing her neck tenderly as she arched her body into his.

 _Damn_ , she was hot for him. Months of pent up emotions and arousal were coursing through her entire body as she clung to his. Abbie’s senses were overwhelmed by everything about him—tall, strong, his erection resting surprisingly hard and heavy against her sex, nudging at her swollen, throbbing clit through her panties and his trousers. His lean, toned body held her up against the wall; he brazenly cupped her ass in one of his big, yet graceful hands while the other wound its way around her waist to seal off the space between their bodies. She could feel each of his nimble fingers gripping her flesh, pressed into her skin and muscle, making her burn where he held her and kissed her. His beard scratched so good, his tongue so thick and hot. _Fuck._

He kissed a slow, steamy trail from her mouth to her neck, pausing to tongue her there. Did they do this shit in the seventeen hundreds?

But then he just _stopped_.

Ichabod lifted his mouth from her collarbone, his eyes roaming over her. He could see her nipples, hard and fighting against the threadbare cotton of her shirt. Her lips were tender, slightly parted, anticipating more kisses from him (and _my_ , how that tantalized him). He breathed against her, drugged by the feel of her warm, supple weight resting on his hips, her legs wrapped around his waist, his cock straining for entry between her thighs. Her exquisitely full, heavy posterior couched in his palm, so pliable and smooth. _God’s wounds_ , he wanted her…but he had to clear his head.

The look in Crane’s eyes as he hesitated caused a flood of arousal to ease its way from Abbie’s sex, soaking her panties. She’d seen nothing but shadows of this look many times before, and always she convinced herself that she was looking at something else. Anything else. Curiosity. Frustration. Friendly affection. Now, he was making it perfectly clear what it meant when he looked at her this way. At least, she thought.

“Forgive me,” he uttered huskily, slowly grinding into her, looking a bit lost and even a little reluctant. “Abbie—I want you. _More than you can possibly know_.”

She wanted him too. Something awful. To demonstrate this, she arched her back, letting him feel how wet she was against the barrier of his trousers. He gripped her tighter by the ass, so possessively that she bit her lip with anticipation of how he might follow it up. _God_ , yeah, she wanted him. They were finally going to do this. Right now. She was finally ready for it. Hungry for it. Katrina and Isaiah and everyone else be damned. She was aching for him, and so damned wet.

“Nothing to forgive,” Abbie breathed. Her eyes, partially hooded by her long lashes, bloomed with desire.

Ichabod nearly buckled at the intoxicating sensations her body’s movements caused him…the smoldering look in her eyes…but he stood firm, freeing his hand from around her waist to caress her cheek and lips.

“I meant what I told you about earning your affections.” He exhaled, his eyes dropping to her mouth. “Your womanhood…”

Abbie angled for another kiss, but he held back.

“What?” She frowned, suddenly feeling the prickle of insecurity.

“I want to _earn you_.” Ichabod told her firmly. He wanted to march with her into battle again, and prove his unwavering devotion to her once and for all. And when it was all over, and they had survived as only they could— _together_ —he wanted to offer himself to her with the reverence and honor she deserved. He tried to convey these desires in his eyes and expression as best he could, unable to think of how to articulate them properly. “ _You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen…_ ” His voice became breathless, so affectionate that Abbie felt a hot tear run down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb, still caressing her face, and leaned in to rest his forehead against hers. “For as long as I live, I’ll never want anything as much as I want you.”

Abbie understood what he was trying to tell her. But he was wrong.

“You’ve already earned me, Crane,” she leaned in again and kissed him, plucking his lips from their hard line, breaking up that honorable expression of his. “Time and time again.” He drew in a sharp breath and kissed her back, groaning into her mouth, rubbing himself into her sex. To hell with honor. She loved him for his morals, and his need to be the better man all the damned time, but he started this. Now she was going to finish it.

“Abbie…” he breathed, pleading with her to have mercy on him. He was trying to do the right thing by her, but she was making it extremely difficult with her every move, her every word. Like always.

“I’m already yours.” She told him in a husky, insistent whisper as she kissed his lips and wound her fingers into his hair, straddling him in earnest now. “Take me. Fuck me, Crane. _Mmm_ …right now.”

Oh, but his dreams were absolutely nothing compared to the intensity of this reality. Abbie, his fierce little warrior, was taking what she wanted. Her voice had been deep and confident. She wasn’t asking. She did not demure. She wanted him—yes, he could feel that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. She straddled his waist, rocking her sex along his aching length, kissing him insistently.

His brilliant Abbie, always egging him onward. So, like always, he followed. With vigor.

Kissing her as though she possessed the very breath of life, Ichabod reached down and began to unbuckle his belt. Abbie moaned with restless need, and the sound caused him to force her back against the wall, his cock throbbing painfully to be inside her. Her lovely lips and rolling hips did little to quell his urgency as he finally freed himself, dropped his trousers and hoisting her up against him. He was so hot and hard, and he let her feel it, lifting her up along his stiff length until his head found her opening through her damp panties. The desire he felt at the sensation shot through him like a lightening bolt. He did it second time, slowly, lost in the fell of her hot, wet sex.

Abbie whimpered breathlessly, her pussy throbbing and her mind filled with blind lust. His cock felt perfect. Like hot, smooth, soft clay against her thighs, right up until she drenched him in her precum. He kissed her over and over again, one set of fingers still gripping her ass, the other aggressively ripping her panties until they came apart in long, delicate tatters and fell to the floor at their feet.

Finally, her searing heat touched his swollen head, and he lost every single scrap of self-control he possessed. Ichabod pushed into her, and they both moaned with the enormous pleasure that shot through them. He was hard as steel, and she was so soft and tender and wet. And again, and again, he drilled into her, floored by how utterly wonderful she felt, even small as she was, her ass tight in his grip, vibrating around his cock as he plunged into her mercilessly. She moaned into his mouth, and he pressed her into the wall, desperately fucking her to kingdom come.

Abbie was swooning. _Holy shit_ , Crane could fuck. His stroke game was ridiculous; it was unfair. He had her pinned against the wall, her ass at his mercy, his cock sliding in and out of her like hot steel, making her a quivering, sopping wet mess. _Why had she waited so long to tell him how she felt?_ Her fantasies of him were _nothing_ compared to how he was making her feel against the wall of this sketchy hotel room in Chester, Pennsylvania. Danger at every turn, sleep deprivation licking at their heels—none of it mattered but for his long, powerful thrusts, making her body sing with pleasure.

After a few rounds of slamming her into the wall with the force of his exertions, Ichabod paused and eased out of her. She grunted with disappointment as she suddenly found herself on her feet and her pussy deprived of his forceful thrusts.

But Ichabod continued to kiss and lick at her lips as he kicked off his boots. Understanding that he wanted freedom from his clothes to really lay into her, Abbie eagerly helped him rid himself of his trousers. They kissed fervently as she forced his shirt and jacket all the way off of his shoulders, down his arms, and pulled his hair loose from the tie holding it partially back from his face. He took off her shirt and tossed it aside before claiming her body, and her sweet lips, for his own once more. Ichabod hoisted her up and slid himself easily inside her again, grunting with possessive pleasure as she kissed him and wrapped her legs around him to steady herself.

Overcome with need, Ichabod turned around swiftly with her in his arms, taking several long strides carrying her to the bed. He bent over with her, still inside her, licking and sucking at her succulent breasts whilst clearing space for them with one sweeping arm. Groaning, bucking into her insistently, he fell on top of her, continuing his assault on her sweet sex, his hands and tongue sliding all over her warm, smooth skin.

Abbie was so hungry for him. _He knew what he was doing._ She was simultaneously pleasantly surprised by it and totally submissive to it. Crane rammed into her so masterfully, it sent currents of pleasure shooting through her with each and every stroke. But now she wanted the upper hand. She wanted desperately to show him exactly how she felt, with every inch of her body and every bit of her skillset.

Ichabod was caught off guard when Abbie deprived him of her deliciously plump, springy nipple to push him off of her. She shoved more files off of the bed and quickly straddled him before the shock could even leave his face. His eyes slipped shut and the expression of protest died on his lips as he felt her sink down onto his hips, her snug sex engulfing him to his balls. She was so wet that her juices had coated her thighs, and as their skin made contact he had to buck his hips upward for how the sensation tantalized him. He chanced opening his eyes as she began to ride him, and the vision he saw left him no recourse but to grip her hips and lie back into the stiff mattress in astonished bliss. Her pert, round breasts were bouncing, her full bottom was slapping against his thighs, her luscious lips were parted and her eyes were crushed shut with pleasure. He was totally at her mercy.

Ichabod reached up to caress her face, his mouth hanging open slightly, utterly undone by her administrations.

“ _Abbie_ … _urrgghh_ …don’t stop, _please_ …” He growled as he pleaded with her, holding onto her for dear life as she rode him into the mattress.

He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t care. She was a sorceress. He was completely under her spell.

Abbie was lost in the feel of his long, thick length sliding into her, hitting her just right, and sliding out of her again like a well-oiled piston. She gripped his thighs, throwing her head back, wanting to disappear with him like this if she could. There was such a sense of urgency for relief, finally, after all this time, that they both became lost in each other…chasing each other’s crescendo…entrapped by the feel of each other’s flesh sliding and striking against one another in heated ecstasy. Both Abbie and Ichabod felt desire burn them from their cores outward, driving them forward, their eyes closed, their mouths open, their fingers gripping each other’s bodies—him her plump, vibrating posterior along with her tiny hip, and she alternating between his exposed chest and naked, muscular thighs, both peppered with a thin layer of sweat and soft wisps of brown hair.

Suddenly, Ichabod frowned hard, his eyes crushing together in panic and concentration. “A-Abbie…” he moaned through deep, yet clipped breaths as his stroke became erratic. “I’m…I’m… _ughnn…_ ”

“It’s okay,” Abbie breathed, on the verge of her own orgasm. “I’m still on birth contr— _ohhh_ …!” Finally she was coming, her tight walls clinging to his in awesome spasms as she slid herself along his cock with determination to make it last even longer. _God it felt so damned good._

Her abdomen clenched and unclenched, a white-hot current of pleasure vibrating from her clit to the cheek of her ass that he still possessed in his strong hand.

Ichabod had to sit up with her when he felt her slick walls pulsing and gripping him, pumping more desperately, breathing all over her. He was quickly following her. If he didn’t stop now, he was going to release his seed into her at full speed. He _couldn’t_ stop. He was powerless against the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing into him.

“P-Please, Abbie, I’m going to…” he pleaded. He wanted to, wanted it with all his being, but this was not any sort of time to risk conceiving a…a…he couldn’t think. Her tight, tender, molten sex took him in again and again so sweetly, so divinely, he was coming. Now.

He let his resistance go and buried his face into her beautiful, bouncing breasts as his seed pumped out of him in an avalanche of ecstasy. Abbie kissed the top of his head until it passed.

The two Witnesses looked into each other’s eyes as they came floating down from the heady state of climax, their simultaneous breathing slowing to a mollified pace. A lock of golden brown hair had fallen into Ichabod’s eyes, but his crystal blue gaze never left hers as he angled his face up to hers. Abbie’s tender lips were parted, her hair crowning her face so that she looked nothing less than goddess-like straddling him in the moonlight, illuminated now and again by the lights of passing cars.

They had finally consummated their bond. He was beside himself with fulfillment. And determination.

Grace Abigail Mills, this beautiful, enchanting creature, was his one and only. He would die for her. He would never leave her. The simple truth of it was as plain and intrinsic to him as his eidetic memory. And finally, she knew. He was free now, they both were.

But they were also still in danger.

The cold, frightening reality of their situation broke into their world too quickly as they stared at each other. Abbie’s eyes, having been hooded with lethargic satisfaction, were growing wider and sharper as she came down from it. She stroked his beard, her expression changing in the dark as the last swells of their lovemaking left her.

“Katrina’s not gonna stop until we’re both dead, is she?” she whispered, leaning into him, her lips brushing against his face.

He held her gaze and swallowed. “No,” came his solemn, honest answer. “Not unless we stop her first.”

“How?” Abbie breathed, truly at a loss. He was still inside her and she was still, somehow, aching for him, but she was also afraid of going to sleep. She could make love with him until sunrise, both for the unbridled pleasure in it and for the escape from her dreams of Katrina.

For his part, Crane looked hopeful, but he hesitated. Before answering, he finally closed off the miniscule space separating their lips and kissed her passionately. He gripped her flesh between his fingers and pushed his hips against her thighs, enjoying the feel of her snug sex still enveloping his semi-erect manhood. “A spell… _mmm…_ ” he kissed her more indulgently, licking at her plush bottom lip to beg for entry to her cool mouth, “bonding us again…this time our dreams…where I can protect you.” The more he moved with her, the slick remnants of their lovemaking drenching his rapidly hardening length, the more he desired another go.

“ _How_ , Crane?” Abbie insisted between kisses, finally letting him encircle her tongue with his as her body unfolded against him, her pussy quivering with anticipation of more insistent thrusts.

“An incantation…” he set himself up properly on the edge of the bed, now desperately needing to be fully erect again. He wanted to make love to her again. Right now.

He couldn’t help from dipping his head down to lap at her splendid breasts with a few fleeting, wet flicks of his long, heavy tongue. When he turned his head back upward to her lips, Abbie was melting all over him, her small body totally squashed into his long, lean one. Her prized posterior, he held firmly in his hands and used to push himself still more deeply into her sex. She whimpered and he stared with lust storming in his eyes. “We say the words. We _mean_ them. We cast the spell. Our bond is already fate, Abbie.”

“And we can share each other’s dreams?” She asked in a strangled whisper while he thrust into her slowly, overcome with a second wave of desire that was a great deal more intense than the first. Abbie wrapped her arms around his neck and began to grind on him, trying to coax his erection along with the grip of her inner walls. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. “We can be together while we sleep?”

He nodded slowly, practically swooning as he finally became fully erect again. “Repeat after me, my love.” He remembered the words he’d written down (and then researched using the Wi-Fi on the plane) perfectly. He spoke them to her now, and she obediently repeated them in a low, smooth voice.

Crane nodded, and Abbie could tell by the way his muscles coiled underneath her legs that he was preparing to plunder her without mercy. She bit her lip in readiness, shivering around him. “Now together.” He commanded, and together they said the incantation in Lafayette’s family’s Creole tongue.

 

_“Upon your eyes_

_I lay a kiss_

_Close them forever_

_In sleepy bliss_

_We go to dream_

_We go to fight_

_Together we live_

_Asunder we die…”_

They repeated the mantra again, both in breathless whispers and soon in moans as Ichabod began to fuck Abbie slowly…then faster. His rhythm matched the pace of their heavy breaths as they chanted the spell’s incantation to each other between urgent kisses. Something gripped them and wrapped them in an extreme, trance-like state. It filled them to the brim with carnal desire for one another. They rose higher and higher to some other plane of consciousness that felt as far away as the moon but as grounded and intense as their lovemaking. It was the spell. It was working. Their bond was getting stronger, deeper. They could _feel_ it. They were consumed by it.

 

_“Together we live_

_Asunder we die_

_Together we live_

_Asunder we die_

_Together…!”_

 

Soon they couldn’t speak a single word, though their eyes remained locked on each other’s as they rocked into each other over and over again on the edge of her queen-sized hotel bed. They were both drenched in sweat. Abbie was practically whimpering and her sex was dripping wet. Her nipples felt like antenna with currents running through them, tuned to tingle at the slightest caress of his steamy breath. Her hands were laced in his golden brown hair, and his remained full of her flesh. His hair was loose, wild, and it fell in his eyes, fluttering as he huffed out each breath. Her beautiful jet-black coils bounced and swayed as they fucked, and he couldn’t help leaning in to inhale the scent of coconut oil like a fiend.

Her hips were hypnotizing as they rolled and rocked into him while his strong arms and legs held her aloft, tirelessly bouncing her up and down along his shaft.

He stroked a precious spot deep inside her each time, and each time she came apart a little more. Until finally neither of them could take it a second longer. Ichabod crashed into her a final time, knocking her orgasm loose and sending it ricocheting all over her body. They moaned and groaned as he followed quickly behind, holding her so tightly against him that it hurt, emptying himself once again. Finally, when the aftershock had crashed through them, body to body, a few times more…they calmed. They stilled.

What followed was a slow, silent dance where the two exhausted Witnesses matched each other’s every move—gently kissing one another, then separating from each other long enough to pull the covers back from the bed.

Abbie scooped up the remains of her panties and handed them to Ichabod, who used them to gently clean her of his seed, then himself. He discarded them and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her naked into bed with him. Close.

Abbie felt high, and sleepy. Happy. Satisfied. Loved.

Ichabod was riding a wave of bliss, feeling more connected to his Abbie than ever before. Their bodies were so in tune, after so long of holding back. She fit perfectly into the curves of his long body, small and soft and weak from pleasure. He nuzzled his nose into her sweet-smelling hair and closed his eyes, inhaling. He wanted to feel this way every night until his dying day. “I love you…” he whispered throatily into her hair. “I will protect you, at any cost. We will solve these mysteries _together_ , Abbie.”

A tear escaped Abbie’s eye as she snuggled even deeper into his arms. She couldn’t answer back. She loved him with her whole being, and she could feel their connection deep inside. He could tell how she was feeling; she knew it because she could feel him too. He held her close, and sleep claimed them, but they didn’t drift off to separate spaces.

She saw every time he looked at her and became speechless with the impact of her beauty. She saw how her every expression was perfectly preserved. She saw those moments when he felt himself falling for her, deeper and deeper. He saw that his eyes entrapped her, never failing to make her heart flutter. He saw that she watched him sleep, worried for him, cared for him even then.

The room was quiet. The lovers slept close, unmoving, unworried. Connected and immersed in each other’s confessions that played out like silent movies in their minds.

Until a cold, lifeless moan broke the silence, shattering their gentle slumber.

Abbie had been smiling happily in her sleep, nestled against Ichabod’s warm chest, but now her smile melted from her face as icy dread enveloped her body. He soon followed, tightening his grip on her as the moan came again. It was awful. The deepest sorrow and most terrifying emptiness filled that voice as the wretched sobbing grew louder and more persistent.

For a moment, Ichabod was back in the kraal in the desert, surrounded by fire and wailing servants. His eyes popped open in the dark, and he immediately drew Abbie still closer to him. The room was freezing. This was a dream. Or was it? Dread seized him like ice-cold water stinging his every pore.

The moaning came again and again, louder and louder. Ichabod’s eyes roamed all over the room, as did Abbie’s.

“She’s here!” Abbie hissed, her eyes now glued to the darkest corner of the room.

And there indeed, stood the lifeless figure of his dead wife, draped in shadow, wailing into the darkness. Anger pierced her moans, and she advanced. This was it. They had drawn her here, and she was coming to murder them both.

Ichabod tried to rise from the bed, to shield Abbie, find some weapon— _any_ weapon—to use against Katrina. But he was frozen in place, once gain, unable to move an inch. His own anger and panic began to rise like a tide come to drown him, and he felt Abbie’s fear radiating off of her in the frigid atmosphere.

He must do _something_! He could do nothing. Only feel Abbie’s terror as though it was his own. It _was_ his own.

Katrina’s specter advanced.

Wailing gutturally, hair flaming red, eyes electric green, face as pale as death.

And the glint of the dagger in the moonlight. Clutched in her decrepit hand.

Suddenly, his arm shot upward, against his will. He strained and fought to pull it back, or use it to free himself, but he was helpless. His hand reached out, and Katrina handed him the dagger.

 _“You’ll diiieeee….”_ Katrina moaned, her voice echoing in both their heads. Her eyes were alight with such anger and hatred. Such sorrow and violence. _“YOU. WILL. DIE!”_

He felt himself turning, his body moving as rigidly as an ancient, rusty lever, toward Abbie with the dagger in his hand. And he knew what Katrina was going to force him to do, and the realization cleaved his heart in two. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he finally saw Abbie’s face, and witnessed the sheer terror there, filling her large, beautiful eyes.

Ichabod fought with all his being against Katrina’s power, but he could not stop himself from pinning Abbie down with his body and his free hand, getting right in her face. He was going to murder her. _Murder her!!!_ Katrina’s spirit wailed in their minds. Abbie felt her heart climb painfully into her throat at the rage and sorrow in Ichabod’s eyes as his outstretched arm came slowly, haltingly downward, bringing the dagger with it. Katrina floated above them, wailing, pushing him forward with her cold, dead glare.

 _No, no, no, **no** …!_ Abbie thought frantically, watching in mute horror as her lover and fellow Witness fought against his own body. He was going to stab her to death, she knew it, she felt it, it was coming. It was horrible.

She racked her brain, found some glimmer of hope, and began immediately to chant the spell incantation he taught her before they fell asleep.

 

_“Together we live_

_Asunder we die”_

 

 _Please, Crane… **Ichabod** …no…_she pleaded with her eyes and her soul. Katrina lowered herself to hover close, watching them with bald malice, her anger growing more volatile by the second as Abbie chanted that mantra over and over again in her mind. Crane followed her lead, his arm feeling as though it was locked in a shark’s jaws.

  _Not Abbie, no, no…not her!_ He had to stop this. _They_ had to, together.

 

_“Together we live_

_Asunder we die”_

 

He looked into Abbie’s eyes, willing her to tear hers way from Katrina, and the dagger in his hand. She finally did as he silently begged, meeting his gaze. They stared into each other, and he found resisting his monstrous instinct to plunge the dagger into her chest suddenly easier. It was working. They could fight this.

Katrina threw a fit. Her spirit flew across the room, knocking over the lamp and then the television, tossing the files all over the floor in a raging surge of energy.

Then she was back on top of them, and Ichabod was seized with a crushing desire that did not belong to him. He raised the dagger. Abbie’s eyes grew wide with shock as he brought it down again, intent on stabbing into her flesh. But he stopped himself just in time, and with a gargantuan effort, missed cutting Abbie to instead hack at the pillow where her head lay. He stabbed downward over and over again, crying out in anguish.

Katrina wailed again, her voice shaking the room, and disappeared.

The dagger disappeared with her.

Ichabod and Abbie woke up, dragging in deep breaths, hearts pounding, goose bumps all over their skin.

His fist was buried in the pillow near her head. It had been stabbed to shreds. They stared at each other, the realization of what they’d just escaped burning in their eyes.

Katrina was gone.

They had survived her attack. Together. Now, there was no turning back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE. TO. COME.
> 
> Including...
> 
> -Jenny, Frank, and Captain Reyes team up against the coven of the Vengeful Serpent  
> -Abbie and Ichabod work together to solve the mystery of Isiah Martin and rescue the hostages  
> -Is Katrina gone for good?

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! This is my first time posting here (and first SH fic), so please be gentle!


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